


Courting by Contract

by VolceVoice



Series: Ones and Ones (and Ones) [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, Balin is a BAMF, Bearded Dwarf Women, Because I Must Save Balin and Ori From The Balrog, Dori has Skillz, Dwalin is Courting . . . But Who?, Dwarf Courting, Dwarf Culture & Customs, F/M, Fewmets are Featured, Fix-It, Friendship, Have Bad Beard Days, Kidnapping, Love, M/M, Multi, Mutual Pining, Nori is Nori, Ori is Awesome, Paperwork, Post-Battle of Five Armies, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-07
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-02-20 05:53:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 61,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2417405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VolceVoice/pseuds/VolceVoice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"In a room in a mountain there labored a dwarf. Not over a bar of white hot iron taken from a glowing forge, hammer ringing on the hardened anvil, nor yet over a pristine workbench with nothing else placed on it but rare metals and freshly-mined gemstones. This was Statecraft, and that meant paperwork." </p><p>What with King Thorin II and his heirs surviving and Erebor thriving, Lord Balin is far too busy negotiating contracts, moderating interspecies disputes, and dispensing well-considered advice to a variety of hotheaded Durins and stubborn dwarrows to mount a Balrog-fated expedition to Moria.</p><p>Unfortunately, he's also too overworked to do much of anything else, until librarian/scribe Eilifr arrives one day to deliver some research—and ends up taking charge of Balin's schedule, organizing his paperwork, and even running interference with an unexpected and unwelcome invasion of opportunistic suitors.</p><p>Some of whom seem to be taking a dangerous sort of interest in his Mahal-sent jewel of an assistant . . .</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dragons make lousy secretaries

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know exactly how I managed to accidentally delete this story, but I did -- I'm pretty sure it was a combination of a bad touchscreen and faulty WiFi and a huge ID10T error on my part.
> 
> Lucky for me, Ao3 is amazingly awesome and automatically e-mailed me a copy of the story, including my chapter notes.
> 
> Unfortunately, certain Khuzdul characters didn't like being reformatted, so I had to do some serious copyediting. 
> 
> But that gave me the opportunity to correct some other things as I went and also give a bit more thought to the plot, so maybe this is actually a better story for its deletion.
> 
> Maybe.
> 
> The only thing I really regret is losing all the wonderful comments and kudos you all so kindly gave the original story. I'm hoping I can earn those back with this version . . .

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I adore Balin. 
> 
> He's the only character in the books or the (first two) Hobbit movies who shows common sense and kindness through the whole thing (so far), not to mention a wry sense of humor. 
> 
> And because he's such a sensible dwarf, I figure that the only reason he set out to reclaim Moria was because Thorin, his King, didn't live to claim Erebor and he needed the closure (Or he resented Dain. Whatever). And Ori went along to document everything because he's a historian-warrior of a romantic nature. 
> 
> And it hurts me that they both died such horrible, unnecessary deaths. Stupid Balrog.
> 
> So if I want Balin and Ori to live, I have to give them a reason to stay put in Erebor. Which means Thorin lives, Filí and Kili get a pass, and Ori gets to be the awesome dwarf we all know he is. 
> 
> And Balin gets a One. 
> 
> Eventually . . .

 

 

 

> _"In a room in a mountain there labored a dwarf. Not over a bar of white hot iron taken from a glowing forge, hammer ringing on the hardened anvil, nor yet over a pristine workbench with nothing else placed on it but rare metals and freshly-mined gemstones. This was Statecraft, and that meant paperwork."_  
> 
>  

Lord Balin of Erebor dropped his quill back in its inkwell and tried to stretch shoulders that had become painfully tight in the hours he'd been sitting hunched at one end of the long table he'd had placed in the inner room of his official chambers. 

The room itself was comfortable enough, now that it had been completely restored and refurbished. He'd chosen the space primarily because it was relatively close to the Throne Room and the Main Gates and had an anteroom for petitioners to wait, but the vaulted ceiling, the carved stone bookcases, and the well-ventilated fireplace of the inner room had helped him make his final decision.

The large window turned out to be an unexpected bonus. His eyes had become used to working by natural light, after so many years aboveground and he'd even learned to enjoy the view that encompassed Mirkwood and beyond—especially as it tended to distract or even unnerve many of his deeper-dwelling visitors. Balin had learned to adjust the heavy draperies to his advantage when negotiations took too long. 

The draperies were pulled back now, and the rising sun was overcoming the light from the fat beeswax candles set in the iron-wrought chandelier above and in the wall sconces. A well-lit room was one of Balin's few indulgences as one of the thirteen richest dwarrows in Erebor. 

Another was the softest bed he could commission for his personal chambers—not that he'd spent more than a few hours a night there for the past month. And never in company, which was a shame for a dwarf who was not yet past his prime, thank you, no matter the color of his hair.

But even if he'd been inclined to add a courtesan to his short list of indulgences, he simply didn't have the _time_.

He'd been up well before Sixthbell this morning, trying to complete as much of his daily work as possible before midday, when he would make himself available to anyone needing an audience for matters too minor to take before the King but too important for a lesser-placed dwarf to handle. Or so they all seemed to think.

These thrice weekly receiving hours were a good idea in theory, but difficult in practice: the last day had been taken up with only two of the nine who had come to consult with him. The others had been loudly unhappy about the wait, and one had complained that he'd returned three times and still hadn't seen His Lordship.

Balin hadn't been any happier about it. In fact, he'd been sorely tempted to step down from his position as Thorin's Chief Counsel completely and spend the rest of the summer in the Shire, sharing tobacco and conversation in Bilbo's front yard and scandalizing that Sackville-Baggins cousin of his—Earlobia?

But he knew he wouldn't be going anywhere any time soon, no matter the aggravations.

In truth, he enjoyed hefting the weight of the law as much as his brother loved hefting his axes. He loved the precision—or not, as the case might be—of contracts and the battle of wit and words that made up negotiations. It was his true Craft and he was pleased beyond measure to be able to ply it to the benefit of his people's regained and growing home, and to take some of the burden of rule from his friend and King.  
   
But he was only one dwarf and not too proud to know when he needed help. Not an apprentice —apprentices would only add to his workload—but an _assistant_.

He rubbed his chin and thought about it. Not just any scribe with a legible hand would do. He needed someone who understood both law and loyalty, the importance of researching precedent and keeping mute. Someone who could keep petitioners under control and withstand the tempers of the belligerent, the flattery of the opportunistic, and the bribes of the affluent.

Someone Balin could  _trust._    
   
Ori would be ideal, but the lad had been given charge of Erebor's Great Library, and he'd earned it. It wouldn't be right to suddenly treat him as a subordinate, instead of the equal he had proven himself to be. He'd even taken on assistants of his own and an apprentice or two, and directed them with a sense of quiet authoritative contentment, in the way of a dwarf who had found his place in the world.   
   
None of the other members of the Company had Ori's skills, and all of them had found niches of their own—even Nori, who had taken to spycraft like a certain hobbit had taken to dwarrowherding.

He would have to look elsewhere. The Library might be a good place to start; Balin hadn't been able to do his own research for far longer than he liked, but Ori would know of any newcomers interested in the vast collection of legal documents that his army of librarians continued to salvage.

Balin added a message to the bottom of his latest research request, rolled it, and went through the anteroom to the hall, where he found an unoccupied runner who would take it to the Royal Historian.

Balin returned to his table, sat down with a sigh, and picked up his pen. He marked another paragraph in the latest proposed treaty with the Stiffbeard Stronghold, one that was becoming more blatantly disadvantageous towards Erebor as it unrolled.

He restrained himself from writing a rude word and glanced at the stacks and scrolls of similar documents waiting for him across three fourths of the table.

Rubbing the bridge of his nose, he tried to decide if the giddy joy he would feel upon setting the whole pile on fire would be worth risking a second Fall of Erebor, when all their careful negotiations and binding agreements went up in smoke. 

Balin chuckled and shook his head. He'd best find an assistant soon—if he didn't, he might find himself hoping for another dragon.

 

oooOOOooo

   
Eilífr woke with the vibrations of Sevenbell, rolled out from under the bedclothes, and stumbled into the small bathing chamber with a sense of gratitude that hadn't waned since she'd moved in.

Her quarters, on the upper levels of the Library itself, were not too much bigger than the tiny room she'd been able to afford in Ered Luin, but she would have happily accepted a hole in the wall the length of a bedroll, if it meant she wouldn't have to walk a quarter mile every time she needed to use the oubliette, only to wait in line for the privilege.

Having one of her  _own_ —not to mention plumbing enough for a coldwater pump and a built-in hipbath that _drained_ —might have been enough to lure her across Eriador to Erebor without the breathtaking opportunity to help put its fabled Library to rights, or working with Ori again.

Her fellow apprentice scribe had become a true friend, and she'd been both worried and jealous when he and his brothers had decided to join King Thorin's quest. She'd cried in relief when she'd learned of their survival and victory, and had started packing even before she'd learned of Ori's royal appointment and received his offer of a place and a purpose.

She finished her business, washed her hands in the small bucket next to the oubliette, emptied it down the pipes, and refilled it from the pump. Then she splashed some water in the small bowl on the stone shelf next to the pump and washed her face, dampening her light brown beard into long wet strands.

After she dressed--in the unobtrusive and dust-masking uniform of the librarian-scribes—she unraveled her braids and brushed them out until her fine-textured hair crackled and wrapped itself around her neck and wrists. There were oils and waxes that would keep it under control, but she couldn't risk transferring even traces of them to the ancient parchments she handled every day.

She scraped the strands together and did her plaits in a manner that she knew didn't do her features any favors but did keep the silky, static-loving stuff out of her way. One long lock under her right ear was saved for a simple, free-hanging braid, finished with the only bead she'd worn since her father had died. She had other pieces, from her mother, but there was no point in wearing any of it. Any suitors she might attract with the fineness of its crafting would disappear once they discovered how little was left, with no prospects of more.

Eilífr peered into the wall mirror and made an attempt to tame her mustache and eyebrows, or at least get the curls to agree on a single direction, before deciding it wasn't worth the trouble. Ancient historical documents didn't care about her lack of looks, or her habit of sleeping with her face mashed into her pillow. It was one of the many things she liked about them. 

A simple silver clasp tidily secured her beard so it wouldn't drag through the ink or get trapped in the ledgers, and she was finally ready for breakfast and a whole blissful day of examining the oldest legal documents she'd ever hoped to see.

A knock came at her door and she opened it. “Master Historian,” she said, bowing a little too deeply.

 ”Stop that,” Ori said, rolling his eyes. “If the Princes see you, I'll never hear the end of it.”

“If the Heirs ever knock at my bedchamber door, I'll be far too busy to bow to _you_ ,” she said.

The Ori she'd first met, fresh-faced and fluff-bearded, would have hunched his shoulders into his knitted hood, blushed bright red to his ears, and maybe looked around to make sure his oldest brother wasn't within earshot.

The Royal Historian of Erebor only grinned. “And I'd never let you hear the end of _that_ ,” he said. “Here, I brought you some of those seedcakes you like.”

She hesitated before taking the small bag. Ori was thoughtful and kind, but he was also far sneakier than many would credit him. “Why?” she asked. 

“Because they're your favorite?”

“Then thank you.” She opened the bag and inhaled the nutty scent.

“You're welcome. So,” he said, clasping his hands in front of him. ”What are you up to today?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. ”Examining the parchments we found behind those cracked shelves. I think they're far older than we believed.”

“Oh?”

“One of them might have been signed by Durin III himself. The handwriting looks similar to the Second Age map of Khazad-dûm that Játvígr is restoring.”

His eyebrows rose. “Really.”

“Yes, _really_. I plan to devote the whole day to them.”

His eyes widened. “Is that so?”

She sighed. “Why don't you save time and tell me what I'm doing instead?”

He produced a parchment and unrolled it. “Searching for precedents to the various farming rights granted to Men over active mining tunnels in exchange for exclusive or discounted food supply.”

“Crops or cattle?”

“Both.”

“How far back?”

He handed her the scroll. “As far as you can go by Secondring.”

She scanned the neatly written lines, recognizing the handwriting from previous requests, though this one wasn't signed with the usual “B” "in fact, it looked as if the bottom of the parchment had been cut away. Not that it mattered.

 Eilífr sighed. At least “B” always asked interesting questions—not quite as interesting as parsing out pre- S.A. 1500 legal terms, of course, but what was?

She pointed at Ori. “No one touches those contracts. Not even _you._ ”

“I wouldn't dare,” he said, holding up inkstained hands and offering his ridiculously adorable lopsided smile. “Can't risk blood spatter on the parchments.”

She huffed at him, then frowned in thought. “I know I saw something about root vegetables and limestone depth in the northeast corner alcove. And Dale must have had cattle prior to the Fall, because part of King Bard's settlement included replacement herds, so they must have negotiated the weight restrictions over active shafts.”

“I knew you were the right dwarrowdam for the job,” Ori murmured, sounding far too pleased with himself.

She ignored him, already tucking her bag of cakes in her belt and moving towards the stair, wondering if that scroll about grain harvesting methods would have anything in it about soil rights . . .

 

 

Five hours later, Eilífr picked up a few pertinent scrolls and a sheaf of summarized findings and tracked down Ori, who appeared to be in his little-used office. 

The door was open, and she heard voices speaking as she approached.

“It's been two months since he came to Bombur's,” Ori was saying. “And he looks like he isn't getting enough sleep, either.”

“Aye,” said a deeper voice that was half growl, half gravel. “He'll work himself to death if we don't do something. I'm not sure Thorin could order him take a day off and make it stick. But are you sure he'll take the bait?”

“I don't see why not. And she deserves the chance. If it doesn't work, we've lost nothing. And if it does, it'll be two metals with one smelting. Or maybe even an _alloy,_ ” Ori added, with that touch of glee in his voice that meant he was meddling again.

Eilífr spared a bit of sympathy for his targets, whoever they were—they wouldn't know what had hit them.

“Don't get ahead of yourself, lad.” The deep voice suddenly sharpened. “Is someone there?”

Eilífr stepped into the doorway. “Master Ori?” she said politely, taking a quick inventory of the enormous dwarf sitting in one of the chairs. He had tattoos where his hair should be and scars everywhere else—and two axes leaning against Ori's desk within easy reach.

He'd been halfway to grasping one when she'd appeared, but she'd noticed the symbol of the King's guard on his tunic just in time to halt her reaction—her _overreaction,_ since Ori clearly knew this dwarf very well.

She eased her hand back around to the scrolls as casually as she could, watching the stranger watch her.

“Eilífr!” Ori said, politely oblivious. “Come meet Dwalin, Captain of the King's Guard. Dwalin, this is Eilífr. We apprenticed together. She knows the legal collections here better than I do.”

The guard's hand relaxed and he nodded. “At your service,” he rumbled.

She gave a brief bow, hampered by the scrolls. “And at yours, Captain,” she said.

Ori beamed. “Are you finished, then?”

“I think so. If there's another relevant source, we haven't recovered it, yet. I've organized a summary and reference sheets for each "

“Wonderful,” Ori said. “I'm sure he'll appreciate them. You'd better hurry,” he added. “He asked to see them by half-past Twicering and it just struck.”

“Of course.” A runner wouldn't do; the scrolls were irreplaceable. “I'll get one of the apprentices to take them. Where should they—"

“I think you'd best deliver them yourself."

She stared at him. “Me?” She saw the rest of the day dwindle into nothing.

Ori blinked. “Of course you.”

“But —"

“You did the research, so if he has any questions, they would go to you anyway.”

“Yes, but I was going to—"

“So it would save time if you were on hand.”

Whose time? ”Who's _he?_ ” she asked, instead.

“Balin,” Ori said, as if it was obvious. “He's moved his Counsel chambers to . . ."

“The Eastern Quarter,” Captain Dwalin said. “Same level as Thorin's private meeting rooms, but nearer the Main Gates.”

“Tho—you don't mean the King's . . .” Her eyes widened. “ _Lord_ Balin? The son of Fundin, Lord Balin?”

“The same,” Ori said, exchanging an amused look with the Captain. 

“The Chief Counsel? The dwarf who negotiated the Firebeard Mining Dispute of 2910? And drafted the treaty for the Broadbeam-Ironfist Alliance of 2943? And wrote the book— _all the books_ —on the exploitation of legal loopholes since the dawn of the Third Age?”

She'd wanted to meet Lord Balin—or _see_ him _,_ at least, from a safe, dignified, distance—since before he'd been a Lord. Since before she'd been _apprenticed_. Half the jealousy she'd felt when Ori left was that he would be traveling with the dwarf whose contracts had _never_ been broken through error or faulty precedent.

“He also survived two dragon attacks, Orcs, Goblins, Giant Spiders, an Elf Dungeon,  _and_  the Battle of Five Armies,” the Captain said, folding his massive arms. “Some might find that impressive, too.”

She shrugged. “It was the same dragon. But those  _contracts . . ._ You mean I've been doing His Lordship's research all this time? And you never _said_?”

Ori blinked. “Didn't I? I thought I had.”

“No. You didn't.”

“I'm sorry, Eilífr. I didn't think it would make any difference in the quality of your research.”

She stiffened. “Of course it wouldn't! But it . . . it would have been nice to know.”

“And now you do,” Ori said. “Oh, give him this for me, please.” He held out a sealed note. 

When she didn't move, Captain Dwalin took it and slid it on top of her stack of parchments. “Better hurry, lass,” he said. “Stickler for punctuality, His Lordship is.”

“But I'm all. . ." She looked down at her dusty, cobwebby clothes.

 ”Don't worry,” the Captain said, kindly. “He won't mind a little dust.”

She glared at Ori. “You _owe_ me.”

He might have said, “We'll see,” but she was already pelting for the side entrance as fast as she could go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An oubliette is a polite, archaic term for toilet with a bit more plumbing to it than garderobes, which are both revolting and insulting to Dwarrow ingenuity.
> 
> I'm also pretty sure dwarrows know what time it is underground (either by innate sense or by checking which side of the mine the bioluminescent lichen is glowing, or whatever) or they don't actually care, but I don't and I do. So I'm forcing them to use Bells (from midnight to midday) and Rings (midday to midnight) to tell time. 
> 
> And because I don't know when to quit, I'm imagining two huge, exquisitely crafted Timebells in a central cavern with phenomenal acoustics. One is tenor (for morning bells) and one is baritone (evening rings) and each is struck at precise intervals with massive ceremonial hammers wielded by enormous, muscular dwarrows wearing the Middle Earth equivalent of military-grade, decibel-blocking earmuffs and also very small loincloths because reasons, hush.


	2. Is there a Librarian in the House?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for all your kudos and comments -- I can't tell you how happy I am that some of you remember this story fondly and want to know how it ends!
> 
> Have another edited chapter!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my headcanon, the Ri brothers are the ideal of dwarven beauty, and I figure that makes Balin quite the looker as well. 
> 
> Plus, in the book, Balin is very close in age to Thorin (in fact, I believe he's a few years younger), so while I'm going with movie-Balin's appearance, I'm moving his age closer to Thorin's than, say, Oin's.

Once she'd reached the correct level, Eilífr managed to snag a passing runner and asked him to lead her to Lord Balin's chamber by the quickest possible route.

He took her request as a challenge and immediately sped partway down a corridor crowded with enrobed courtiers before making a sharp left. 

She barely kept him in sight as they zig-zagged through a hallway bustling with scribes and servants, but caught up as he slid silently through a side passage lined with statue-still guards.  They squeezed along another hallway so narrow that Eilífr had to turn her scrolls sideways to fit, before a final left turn and a short walk brought them to a set of large wooden doors, flanked by two guards.

Eilífr thanked the young dwarf with a breathless chuckle, handing him the bag with her remaining seed cakes as a reward. He peeked inside, grinned in delight, and bowed low before scampering away.

She paused to straighten her tunic and smooth her hair as best she could with one hand and then pushed open the rightmost door.

The room she stepped into was of good size, but seemed much smaller, crowded as it was. The stone benches and wooden chairs lining the walls were all occupied and each corner contained a leaning petitioner. The only free surface was a small wooden table placed near the opposite wall, next to a closed door that looked no less solid than the outer ones.

All eyes, some hostile, some mildly interested, and several half-asleep, looked at her. One pair belonged to a Man, who took up half a bench meant for three and who must have been accompanied by one of the dwarrows present, if he had been allowed even this far inside the Mountain.

"Don't be thinking you'll see his Lordship today," challenged the nearest dwarf, whose full, bushy dark beard did little to hide his scowl. "We were all here before you, and I'm next."

"I'm only here to deliver these," she said politely. "It won't take any time."

“Too right it won't,” he said. “You can wait your turn like the rest of us. And I'm—"

"We _know_ ," said a red-haired dwarf with the braided-back moustaches of a Broadbeam miner. “You can leave those, if you like,” he added, gesturing to the table. "We'll see His Lordship gets them next time he comes out.”

“ _If_ he comes out,” someone else muttered.

It was tempting, but she couldn't leave original scrolls unattended—or face Ori's disappointment, which was always so much worse than his disapproval.

"Thank you, but I can't,” she said, moving to the table anyway and carefully setting her armload down. "These are from the Library. I have to hand them to Lord Balin personally.”

The dark-bearded dwarf grunted. "He's not being handed anything until I gets my answers.”

Everyone made sounds of general agreement to this. Even the Man nodded.

Eilífr had a lifetime's experience with the stubbornness of dwarrows, but she tried anyway. "What if he requested these to study your problem?” she asked. "Wouldn't you want his lordship to read all the available information before he speaks to you?”

“Hmmph.” The dark-haired dwarf crossed his arms and lowered his bushy eyebrows. " _Reading.”_

But a few of the others were eying the scrolls with interest. “What're they about, then?” the red-haired dwarf asked.

Eilífr opened her mouth, then closed it. Lord Balin was involved in private treaties as well as public ones, and it wouldn't do to speak about something he might want to keep private. "I'm afraid I can't say,” she said. "In case the person it involves would prefer his business to stay his own.”

"Too right," the dark dwarf muttered.

 But the Broadbeam dwarf shrugged. "I don't mind anyone knowing,” he said. "I want to open a mineshaft, but the inspector says I need proof and a bit of intentional writing or summat before he'll set foot in it.”

“A writ of intent,” she said, nodding. "Your inspector needs proof that you own the mine or have the right to work it. He also needs a statement—the “writ”—that you intend to fix any safety problems he'll find, funds permitting, before you open the mine or allow it to be worked.”

“What else would I do?” he said, wrinkling his brow.

“Pretty it up cheap and sell it on, leaving the next fool with an unsafe hole in the ground,” muttered a nearby dwarf, who sported a cascade of braided brown beard. When the redheaded miner glared at him, he held up his hands. "Don't mean you, but that's why  _I'm_  here.”

The miner turned back to Eilífr. "Well, I  _do_  own the mine and I plan to be working it myself, whatever it takes. It was my mother's, before the Fall, and it came to me when she died.” He pulled a much-folded square of oilskin out of his pocket. "See? She signed it over to me, here."

She carefully flattened it on the table. "You've taken good care of this," she said, tracing the letters of the deed, which had faded only slightly over time.

“Never thought it'd be anything but a keepsake,” he said gruffly. "But here we are."

“I don't think you'll need Lord Balin's assistance for this. All you really need is a template for the writ. . . here." She took out the charcoal pencil and small memo book she always kept in her belt pouch, and jotted down a series of questions. "Are you lettered, Master Dwarf?” she said quietly.

“Raði son of Hraði.  And of Guðríða” he added, tapping the Deed. “Aye. She taught me to read as well as dig.”

She tore out the page and gave it to him. “Answer these questions in a separate document and make a copy. Leave room for three signatures at the end. You and the inspector must sign them in front of a witness, and you will each keep a copy. That way, you'll both be protected if something were to happen. It's a type of contract,” she added.

He looked at the page, and nodded slowly. "Now, _that_ makes sense. I'm at your service, Master Librarian,” he added, with a sidelong glance at the Man.

“Eilífr,” she said, appreciating his courtesy, though she doubted the Man cared if she was a dwarrowdam or not. "And I was glad to do it Master Raði. Keep that deed safe,” she told him as he folded it again. "It's a piece of history.”

“And a future, too,” he said. He bowed, thanking her again, and left.

The defrauded dwarf spoke. “I don't suppose there's aught you can do for me?”

“I have no legal authority,” she said, wondering how much longer Lord Balin would be. “I only know what I've read, and I know about writs because my old Master used to make us practice writing them.

“Maybe so,” the dwarf said, coming out of his corner, “but you know more than I do. If you have advice, I'll listen, and not hold you to the results.”

She thought for a moment. "Do you have a writ or an inspection report?”

"I've got a deed, a report that's not worth the parchment, and a true list of safety problems as long as your arm."

 ”Do you know the dwarf who sold you the mine, or his inspector?”

“I remember the names I was told.” His expression went grim. “And I know what they look like.”

“Good. I suggest you swear out a complaint of fraud and theft against both with the Guard—they'll hunt them down for you. Then bring a copy of the complaint, your deed, and all the inspection documents to . . . where's the mine?”

He snorted. “I'd hardly call it a mine, but it's in the Western Depths.”

"That's Master Bofur's region, isn't it?" she asked, trying to recall what Ori had mentioned about his friend. "I suggest you report it to him. He's a miner himself and from what I've heard, he takes the safety of his people very seriously."

“That's true enough,” he said, rubbing his chin under his braids. “Master Bofur had four dwarrows in chains a month back, for accidentally flooding another's claim and nearly drowning two lads. Let's see what he'll do with these filthy dogs.” He didn't spit on the floor, but the sound he made was just as scornful. “If I knew less about cribbing and roof sag, I wouldn't have thought to call in my own inspector. That's attempted murder in my book, or as near as.”

“Good luck,” she said, meaning it.

He bowed. “That would be a pleasant change.”

A dwarf in a bright yellow hood brought over Master Raði’s chair. “Here,” he said, kindly. “You're doing all the work, might as well be comfortable.”

“Thank you, but I won't be. . .” She trailed off as he pulled up a chair of his own and set a wad of parchments in front of her. 

She sat down with a sigh.

 

 

A good number of the waiting dwarrows appeared to have relatively simple problems needing only a form or two. Eilífr sent them to the reputable scribes used by the Library. Another was advised to go the guards to swear out a complaint for theft. 

Two more arrived to take seats, and she wondered why all these dwarrows were so willing—more or less—to wait days to see one dwarf when less than half an hour with another would do.

She understood how beneficial it was for the King's advisors to listen to the needs of the people and for all Ereborans to know they could request the ear of the King's Counsel, but the process seemed terribly disorganized to her.

But about half did need Lord Balin's expertise or signature. She felt bad about not being able to help, but she couldn't speak for Lord Balin—she'd never spoken _to_ him.

She was saying as much to one dwarf, just as Fourthring struck. “. . . And you'll need more time than you'll be able to have with him today.”

“Too right,” growled a familiar voice. “ _I'm_ next.”

“But all I need is his signature and seal, see?” the dwarf said shaking his head so his jeweled beads danced. “Surely the work of a moment?”

“I'm sure he'll want to look over your papers, first,” she explained. “To make sure they're in order.”

“But this is the third day I've wasted here, see?” said the disappointed dwarf. “I can't expand my business without those permissions, but I can't run what business I have, if I'm not _there_ to run it.”

Eilífr understood his frustration. Random, disordered help was only slightly better than no help at all.

She exhaled and paged through her research summaries to find the spare sheets of blank parchment she hadn't had time to remove. “When's the next open meeting day? Tomorrow?”

“Day after,” the Man said, though he had appeared to be sleeping. “Three days a week, spaced a day apart. This is the second.”

Eilífr nodded and drew a simple grid with the names of the days at the top and the hours along the side. “I can't promise anything,” she said. “I'm overstepping myself as it is, but I can ask him to see you at a certain time on that day.”

“I'll have to, anyway, see?” the dwarf said. “So I'll be no worse off if he refuses.”

“Can you be here at Thirdring in two days?”At his nod, she penciled in his name and the nature of his petition. ”I'll limit your time to an hour, to be fair to the others,” she said. “But it shouldn't take more time than that.”

“Shall I leave these?” he asked, pointing to his papers.

She hesitated. “All right,” she said. “But I should also make a note of your current lodgings, so they can be returned to you if he prefers not to take them. Or I can keep them safe at the Library until your appointment; you can pick them up on your way.”

“You won't be here on that day?” he asked.

“I'm not supposed to be here now,” she muttered, thinking of her ruined plans for the day.

“What about the rest of us,” someone said. “Why should he get special treatment?”

“It's not special,” she said, “it's systematic. You can all have appointments, too, if you want to risk it,”' she said. “I'll try to judge how long your case may take, but I might get it wrong. And his lordship may not like this idea at all.”

There were mutterings as the concept was discussed, but eventually most requested appointments of their own, agreeing that she wouldn’t be to blame if Lord Balin didn’t care for the idea. She made another chart for the following week and did her best to sort them all into appropriate and convenient times.

The room emptied quickly, leaving only the Man and the dark-haired dwarf, who had not budged from his seat the entire time.

After a few minutes of silence, Eilífr began drafting a letter to Lord Balin, explaining that she would return with the scrolls in the morning and hoped that he might grant her a few minutes to discuss an idea for managing his petitioners. She was just adding a final apology for her presumption and the hope that her summaries would provide at least a portion of the information he needed, when she heard the snick of a door opening.

She turned to see a dwarf backing out of the room beyond, holding a low bow. “Thankee, milord.”

“Just have a scribe complete the areas I indicated and I'll sign them,” said a voice that was a pleasant mix of patient, tired, and amused. “And next time, please don't let your sister's husband draft your contracts, no matter what she threatens to do to you.”

“Yes, milord, no, milord,” the dwarf said, straightening up. “But meaning no offense, milord; it took me a fortnight of waitin' to see you this time, includin’ travel from t’other end of Dale. I don't think I can take another two weeks away from the forge.”

“Yes, well . . .”

As she heard the rueful exhaustion in the still-pleasant voice, Eilífr's felt her resentment vanish.

“There's a spot open at Secondring in five days,” she said, before she thought. “Will an hour be enough?”

The dwarf looked at her in confusion, then through the door. “I suppose it will?”

“It certainly should,” the voice said. “But what's this?” And another dwarf stepped through the door.

Eilífr had always half-imagined Lord Balin as a much older Ori, with a wiry frame stooped from years of reading, clad in a set of warm robes of office to ward off the chill in his bones, paired with a knitted hood and ink-stained gloves. His long, sparse beard gone wispy from tugging it as he read, a habit of her old Master, and his eyes would be rheumy and narrowed from years of squinting at texts.

But this burly dwarf was clearly no elder, white hair or no, and the way he carried himself reminded her of what Captain Dwalin had said, that Lord Balin was also a warrior who had survived wars and dragonfire both. His beard flowed over a barrel chest and his clothes were rich but comfortable, and would not get in the way of the sword that he was probably accustomed to wearing on his broad belt. 

His brown eyes were bright and kind, if tired, and his features had the stamp of confidence and authority. They were also unexpectedly handsome, particularly his nose . . .

Eilífr was suddenly aware of her dusty tunic and charcoaled fingers. And that she was still seated in the presence of the Chief Counsel of Erebor.

Who was waiting for her to answer his question.

She shot to her feet, catching the chair just in time to keep it upright, and bowed, her face heating. “I apologize for my impertinence, my lord. Only everyone was becoming a bit impatient, and they started asking me for advice and half only needed a scribe or a guard, but then it became late and I thought an appointment chart might help and. . .” She swallowed. “He's next,” she said, pointing.

Lord Balin blinked, but turned. “Master Hvítkárr? And Mister Hird with you, I see. I'm afraid I haven't had a chance to review the—"

The dwarf— Hvítkárr —held up a hand, stopping Lord Balin mid-sentence. He stood and stomped over to the table. “Farming rights?” he growled.

When Eilífr nodded, he scooped up the scrolls. took three steps, and shoved them at Lord Balin. “Read these.” He turned his glare on Eilífr. “When?”

“The next meeting day, at Firstring,” she said faintly. “I saved you two hours.” She wrote down their names, now that she had them.

“Thank you, Master Eilífr, Your Lordship,” said the Man. “You can stop scowling, Karrí. You’re next!”

“Too right, I am,” Hvítkárr said, and marched out. The Man winked at Eilífr and closed the door behind him as he left.

Eilífr and Lord Balin looked at each other for a moment. His sharp eyes focused on the single bead in her hair and his eyebrow rose.

She raised her chin and braced herself for his questions.

Instead, he offered her a proper bow, scrolls and all. “Balin, son of Fundin,” he said. “At your service.”

She stared at him a beat too long. "Eilífr, daughter of Ólifr,” she said, finally. "At yours, my lord.”

He smiled. "Apparently so," he said. ”Come explain yourself, lass. And bring that chart of yours.” He carried his armload through the doorway.

She fought the urge to run in the other direction all the way back to the safety of the Library and followed him.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that is how Eilífr invented the desk calendar and about time, too. Pun intended.
> 
> I’m Old Norsing all the new names with the help of the Viking Lady’s Answer Page, mostly because it’s fun. The Kárr part of Hvítkárr means “obstinate, pugnacious, and reluctant”, by the way, though Hvít means “white”, so oh, well.


	3. What's a Threat or Two, Among Friends?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Again, THANK YOU all for your lovely comments and kudos and bookmarks (and Muppet-flails and keyboard mashings).
> 
> I'm going to run out of edited chapters to thank you with, if you all continue to be so amazingly supportive . . . but have another one anyway!

Balin moved down the length of the table to deposit his armload in the small area of clear space in front of his chair. “Please, sit,” he said, gesturing at the adjacent chair, as the young dwarrowdam—Eilífr—appeared in the doorway, clutching a stack of parchments in front of her, like a shield.

Her eyes took in the room, flickering from fireplace to ceiling to bookcases to the window, which he'd uncovered near the end of his last meeting in the hopes of gently hastening the grateful dwarf's departure.

He thought about pulling the drapes closed now, but the view didn't seem to bother this unassuming librarian, whose plain clothing and braids and single, practical beard clasp told him nothing of her rank, family, or attachments. The only clue was that single, surprising bead, polished to a dark metallic gleam.

Hematite was considered a mourning stone by some Clans, though it had no special meaning for Longbeards, who rarely worked with it. And though the simple plait it adorned indicated nothing further about her loss, one of the bead's carvings did tell him something he wouldn't have expected.

But it would be rude to comment on the grieving bead of a dwarrow he’d just met, even if he hadn’t noticed the way she’d tensed when he'd looked at it. He had no wish to make her uncomfortable simply to satisfy his idle curiosity.

The sun had long since passed to the other side of the Mountain and he picked up the long-handled brass candlelighter, igniting the taper from the flame of the nearest sconce.

As he reached up to light the candles in the chandelier, he watched Eilífr walk slowly around the table to the second chair, looking over the mass of parchments and scrolls and volumes with wide eyes, as if she couldn't quite believe the chaos.

“I haven't had the time lately to put much away,” he said, wondering why he felt so defensive; most dwarrows were impressed by the heaps and piles. “It's been easier to keep everything to hand.”

Her wide brow wrinkled a little, but she sat down without saying anything, squaring her papers neatly in front of her.

He blew out the taper, slid the candlelighter back into its stand, and took his own seat. “All right, let's have a look at the miracle that kept Master Hvítkárr's notorious temper in check.”

She slid two sheets in front of her and he studied them. The system seemed simple enough, but he could see one or two potential problems.

“You wouldn't be spending a great amount of time on a single appointment,” she said, as if she'd read his mind, or perhaps his expression. “But you can see more dwarrows per day, and each will arrive knowing that they _will_ see you. If you need more time, a second or even a third appointment can be made. It should be easy to reschedule them as well, which should make inevitable delays less frustrating.”

“Inevitable delays?” he said, lifting an eyebrow.

She spread her hands, showing neatly trimmed nails on smudged fingers. “You're an important dwarf, my lord, with many responsibilities. And there are only so many hours in a day, or days in a week.”

She was right about that. “You marked out one hour for this dwarf and marked two for Hvítkárr and Hird,” he said, tapping the squares. “Why? Would each petitioner have one hour? Would three people sharing one petition be granted three hours?”

"No, my lord. Masters Hvítkárr and Hird have an entirely new contract to negotiate and several differing precedents to guide them, depending on their particular circumstances,” she said, indicating the scrolls and sheaf of research she'd brought him. “Though when I blocked out their appointment, I had only assumed that Master Hvítkárr might require . . .”

“Extra time to argue each and every point?” Lord Balin chuckled. “Well judged.”

“Thank you, my lord,” she said. “But this other dwarf only wants you to sign the permissions for him to expand his jewelry business. I scheduled a full hour, though it shouldn’t take that long.”

“The signatures won't, but I would need to read through—"

“These?” She handed him a stack of pages, which had been clipped together with a bit of cleverly folded wire. "We— _he_ hoped you might read through them before he arrived for his appointment. He was the only one to suggest it, but in the future, you can ask the other petitioners to do the same, when they make their appointments. I mean, whoever makes your appointments can ask. That is,” she said, ducking her head a little, “if you decide to try this plan.”

“And if I don't?” he asked, out of interest rather than intent. Her system was sound, but he wanted to know whether she would defend it on its merits or out of ego.

Instead, disappointment and embarrassment chased across her expression. “I'll return his documents to him tomorrow, my lord,” she said immediately, her voice quiet. “And inform the rest of your petitioners that the system isn’t adequate to your needs. With your permission, I’d like to ask each of them to wait four days before returning, so that Master Hvítkárr and Hird have their chance to see you. I had already told them that I did not speak for you, but I'll make sure any blame or disappointment will fall on me for my presumptions. I apologize, my lord; I truly meant no offense.” She reached for the pages.

He set them down by his far elbow and smiled at her. “No apologies necessary, lass,” he said, “to anyone. Your charts should spare me a good number of headaches. Not all,” he added, sighing, “but unless Mahal decides to remake us Khazâd less headstrong, there's no hoping for that.”

She relaxed back into her seat and her lips quirked under the tiny curls of her moustache. He was glad of that; it disturbed him that a bright young dwarf who had apparently handled a roomful of irritated dwarrows—and a Man, though Hird seemed incapable of being irritated—with remarkable competence would be so quick to assume that her ideas would be dismissed.

“And this is the research I asked for?” He reached for the sheaf, catching a glimpse of a half-finished note, addressed to him. He had time to notice that the handwriting seemed familiar, before Eilífr whisked it away and substituted a letter that was sealed with Ori's mark in copper-colored wax. 

“From Master Ori,” she said, sounding flustered. “I'm sorry; I should have given it to you at once.”

“Is it urgent?” he asked.

Her eyes widened. “He didn't say.”

He smiled at her. “Then it probably isn't.” But he slit the seal with his thumbnail and started reading.

Two lines in, he raised his eyebrows.

>   
> 
> _To Lord Balin, Chief Counsel of Thorin II, called Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain, Greeting—_
> 
>  I write to you today, my respected friend, to issue a grave warning:
> 
> If you do not appear at Bombur's table a fortnight hence for dinner, the entire Company to a dwarf has pledged to hunt you down and parade you on our shoulders, trussed and bound, through the main halls and corridors of Erebor.
> 
> In order to preserve your dignity, may I request that you accept the conveyor of this missive into your employ? Eilífr has a remarkably sharp and organized mind, reads contracts and treaties for amusement, and has been solely responsible for researching your queries since her arrival from Ered Luin.
> 
> While I am reluctant to lose her skills and plan on borrowing her as often as possible on behalf of the Archives, I also consider her a dear friend and she deserves even more than the Library can offer her.
> 
>  Ever at Your Service,
> 
> _Ori, Master of the Libraries of Erebor and Royal Historian of the Reign of Thorin II, called Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain_
> 
>  P.S. Your brother wishes me to inform you that Nori claims to know four ways into your Chambers of Office that do not require the doors or windows, Dori can supply a quantity of silk rope sufficient for trussing a dwarf of your dimensions, and Bofur offered to help with the knots. In addition, Their Highnesses have requested that I capture the occasion in a sketch, Óin says he will be on hand in case Glóin drops you, and Bombur plans to make that mushroom stew you love, from Bilbo's recipe. Our Leader and King is maintaining his plausible deniability, but was overheard asking Bifur to fashion a frame suitable for a copy of the sketch.
> 
>  O

 

He snorted at the postscript and glanced at Ori's "dear friend".

“Will there be a reply, my lord?” she asked, showing no signs of impatience, undue curiosity, or any clue at all that she knew what he'd just read.

“Possibly,” he said, refolding the letter. He looked at the first page of the summary, realizing why the handwriting on the unfinished note had looked familiar. “You compiled these,” he said.

“Yes, my lord.”

“And also completed my previous inquiry about the ownership of convergent mineral seams?”

She nodded. “I'm overseeing the restoration of the legal collections of the Library, so I'm familiar with most of the available documents.”

Was she, now?

“Then would you mind going through these with me, lass?” He offered a weary smile that was in no way a ruse. “I'm afraid my eyes have grown tired with untangling the validity of contracts written by dwarrows who should not be allowed to touch quill to parchment.”

“Oh course, my lord,” she said immediately. “The first agreement I found was written in the eighty-ninth year of King Thrór’s reign, after some ten head of cattle broke through a mineshaft that had recently extended into the Western Pasturelands of Dale.” As she spoke, her voice regained the confidence she'd shown while explaining her appointment charts.

“Near the Long Lake?” he asked, wondering where he'd put the map he'd been looking at yesterday.

Her grin was so unexpected, it caught his breath. “The mineshaft _is_ the Lake,” she said.

His answering grin seemed to break her reserve and she continued to outline her findings, answering his questions almost before he could ask them, and quickly locating citations in the scrolls. Her entire body was animated as she spoke and gestured, and her eyes—which until that moment, he would have been hard-pressed to describe, beyond their standard number—came _alive_.

When Balin had been a lad and Dwalin a tiny babe, their mother had set her youngest apprentices working with common stones that barely counted as jewels, though they were pretty enough. When some were shaped and polished, they had silky layers of banded colors that glowed in the light, caused, his mother said, from fibers in the stone, and were popular with children.

Dwalin had gummed happily at inexpertly-fashioned moonstone teethers, but Balin had liked the banded quartz the best, because the colors shone like softest gold and came from iron and earth absorbed into the gem.

Their mother had given him a bagful of banded spheres for his twentieth birthday, and he'd counted them among his favorite playthings, keeping them over the decades even after other toys had been abandoned. He had the habit of carrying one or two on his person for remembrance and luck and still had the few that he'd carried away from Erebor and back again—which was more luck than he deserved and often brought back more memories than he wanted.

But he'd _never_ seen a dwarrow, dwarf or dam, with eyes like that quartz, all different shades of brown and gold, shimmering in the candlelight. Her hair was the same, he saw, with strands of light and dark woven into her practical braids.

How had he, who prided himself on his sharp eyesight, ever thought her plain?

“My lord?” she asked.

He realized that he’d been staring and shook his head. “Sorry, lass,” he said. “I just remembered my manners; would you care for some tea?”

She blinked at him. “Um, no thank you, my lord. But if you wish for some, I can—”

“No need, lass, no need.” He faked a pondering frown. “What are your thoughts on the weight estimations of the herds during calving season? Has anyone established a standard mortality adjustment?”

He’d never enjoyed discussing agricultural legalities quite so much, especially when his guest forgot herself enough to argue with him. She was fiercely defending a standard of measure that he claimed was irrelevant and she thought might be the basis for the construction of mineshafts pre-dating King Girion’s rule, when the Timebell struck more rings than he’d expected.

Eilífr looked up from the scroll she'd been quoting. “I didn't know it was so late!” she said. “Ori—I, mean, Master Ori— will be wondering where I am. And I shouldn't have taken up so much of your time.”

“I'm sure it was the other way around,” he said. “And you’ll be wanting your dinner.”

She started to nod, then stopped and blushed, as if remembering her place once again. “Did you want me to take a reply to O—Master Ori?”

“Oh, yes,” he said, taking up a spare piece of parchment and digging under a stack of pages for a pen. She handed him the ink bottle. “Thank you, lass.” He uncorked the ink, then paused. “You know,” he mused, “whoever makes those appointments for me will need scribe training and at least a basic knowledge of the law. Discretion, too. And there would be research, meetings, paperwork by the mountainload . . . and this place to organize. There can't be too many dwarrows with those kinds of skills. Or that kind of patience,” he added.

“Master Ori knows all the scholars and scribes in Erebor,” she said, looking down as her hands tidied the nearest scrolls and scattered parchments. “He might know of someone suitable.”

“He might,” Balin said, “but it would take a singular dwarf to deal with me and my messes.” And perhaps, despite Ori's threat-disguised suggestion and his own hope, she simply didn't.

But her head came up sharply. “Any dwarrow would be honored to work for you!”

He rubbed his eyes and chuckled. “And why's that, lass?” he asked, though he knew the reasons well enough: he had riches, a hero’s reputation, an impeccable lineage, and the friendship of the King. The toadies and sycophants had been coming out of the strata even before Thorin had officially appointed him to a position of power.

But once again, she surprised him.

“Because _you're_ the one who convinced the Firebeards to concede the Belegost Sapphire Shales to the Longbeards,” she said. “ _You_ established an equitable trade agreement with Erebor and Mirkwood without bloodshed on either side. And your treaty between the Ironfists and the Broadbeams . . .” She shook her head. “It’s perfect.”

He blinked. “I didn't think anyone bothered to look at that one anymore. It only lasted forty years.”

“Forty-two,” she muttered, her broad cheekbones coloring.

He was sure his own matched. He cleared his throat. “You'll be accepting the job, then?”

She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again and said, ". . . Yes?”

“Good!” he said, clapping his hands together. “Bring me your employment contract tomorrow at Sevenbell.”

“What? Me?” She put a hand to her beard clasp. “You want _me_ to write a contract?” she asked, looking as stunned as if he'd hit her in the forehead with a forging hammer. "For _you_?”

“No, for _you._ What better way to see your skills?” He dipped the pen and wrote a single word on the parchment, then looked around. “Where did I put . . .”

She wordlessly handed him his stamp and a wax stick.

“Thank you.” He sealed the parchment and handed it over. Then he stood, feeling lighter than he had in a long while.

She did likewise, but as if her legs were working independently of her mind.

He led her to the door. “I'll see you tomorrow morning,” he said. “With that contract.”

“Right. Tomorrow. Thank you, my lord,” she said. She offered a distracted bow in his general direction and left.

Balin shut the door and went to rest for a minute or two in front of the fireplace, dropping onto the cushions of the settee, which had become more familiar than his mattress. He should probably have a runner fetch him some dinner of his own, something he could eat over another late night of forms and figures . . .

But at least there was the promise of mushroom soup and good friends—and a definite lack of trussing and parading—in his near future.

He'd have his new assistant put it in his schedule.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing what you know in a completely different world without committing anachronisms every other sentence is Not Easy.
> 
> I'm referring to the librarianship and losing things I just had in my hand two seconds ago, in case you were wondering. 
> 
> Don't know a thing about trussing or mining contracts or ranching, obviously, but I think I managed the paperclips all right.


	4. The way to a Dwarrowdam's brain is through her stomach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Dori, who in my headcanon can knock an Oliphant back with a single punch between the tusks, gives hugs like your great-aunt's most comfortable, afghan-covered armchair, provides expert (and occasionally unsolicited) advice on teas and tailoring, and is one of the most elegant, eligible dwarrows of his generation.
> 
> But Nori? Nori is unexpectedly fun to write.
> 
> And Dwalin can be unexpectedly sweet. Must be the moonstones.

Eilífr had no idea how she returned to the Library.

She remembered stepping from the warmth of Lord Balin's office chambers into the cooler antechamber, but the next time she noticed her surroundings, she was making her way past shelves and bookcases, as if her feet had decided where they were going and hadn't bothered to tell the rest of her.

It was a convenient arrangement, so she let them carry her to the scrivener's room.

There, she found Ori checking the work of one of his apprentices, who had been charged with copying out a minor history for the Library in the Iron Hills.

The apprentice was gazing at her Master with a rapt adoration that Eilífr would have found hilarious, if she hadn't been so distracted.

“The ancient script styles can be tricky with our modern pens,” Ori was saying, “so I don't want you to try to recreate it exactly; you have a nice hand, so concentrate on legibility. Be consistent and mind your lines. No translations, please; if you have a question about a spelling or definition, check with me first.”

The apprentice blushed, dipped her pen carefully, and started the next word, the tip of her tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth.

Ori turned, saw Eilífr, and smiled. “You're back,” he said. “I didn't think it would take you _that_ long to—Eilífr? What's wrong?”

“I have to write a contract. For Lord Balin.”

He led her to a corner of the room and maneuvered her into a chair. “What kind?”

“Employment. Here,” she said, giving him Lord Balin's reply. “I'm sorry, Ori, I didn't mean to, or I did at the time, but I don't want you to think—but maybe he'll hate the contract, anyway, so—"

“He won't,” Ori said, opening the note. His smile reappeared, but she barely noticed. “Don't worry, Eilí; this is _good_ news. I'm happy for you.”

“Okay,” she said, thinking so many thoughts, she couldn't keep track. “But where am I going to _live_?”

“Right here, of course, as long as you want. You'll still be doing Balin's research, probably at all hours, if I know him, so it would be convenient for you. And that way, I'll still see you once in a while.”

“Good; I'd miss my room. And you. And I will be, won't I . . . But those Second Age scrolls!” she said, grabbing his sleeve. “They're _mine_ , you promised. You can't let just anyone touch them! Ori—"

“They're still yours. You don't have to stop working for the Library altogether, you know. You can write that in your contract.”

“Right. The contract. For Lord Balin.” She rubbed her temples. “Oh, Mahal, why did I say yes?”

“Because you wanted to, Eilí. You'll be good at it, too. I know you will.”

“Oh. Right. I did. I mean, I do. I might be. . . But I've never employed a written contract before—no, I mean . . . What do I mean?” She glanced at the note on the table, but the word written there didn't mean anything to her. Or, no, it did, but only its meaning, not what it _meant . . ._ what?

“Oh, dear,” Ori said, from a longer distance than he was actually sitting. “Eilí? When did you last eat?”

“Umm . . .” Her hum matched the buzz in her head, which was interesting. She did it again. “You brought me breakfast. I still have two of those cakes, somewhere, if you want one . . .” She looked for the bag on her belt, but it was gone. She’d given it to someone . . . the small dwarf. “They ran away,” she said.

He stood up, leaving the note. “Come on, let's get you fed.”

“But I have to—"

“Food first.”

“You do owe me dinner,” she said. “I was there _all day._ I had to make a chart to keep track of the dwarrows. But I shouldn't talk about that. Or should I? The expectations of privacy are an important point . . .”

He patted her hand, then pulled her to her feet. “So is dinner.”

She let him push her towards the door, as she tried to plan the first few sentences of the introduction. Or, no, the points of requirement were more important; she could fancy it up later.

_Duties, salary and allowances, privileges . . ._

She took out her small book and charcoal and scribbled as she went, barely conscious of the firm hand that steered her through corridors and down levels.

_. . . rights, restrictions, time off, limitations, side employments, authorizations, healing plan . . ._

“Here we are,” Ori said, in the middle of a paragraph about discretionary responsibilities. He let go of her arm, knocked a pattern on the door that was suddenly in front of them, and opened it. “Dori? I brought a guest for supper! Eilí, we're here.”

“Just let me get this down . . ." she said, tripping over the threshold.

“Now _that_ takes me back,” said a voice that wasn't Dori's. Nori, she registered dimly, writing a sentence, crossing it out, and writing it again.

“I was never that bad,” Ori said.

“You used to bump into walls,” Nori said. “Went around with bruises on your forehead, until you learned to use your peripheral vision.”

“I saw him bump into a wall the other day,” said another voice that was too full of gravel to be Dori's. "Sort of."

Eilífr frowned at her book. She knew that rough voice. It shouldn't belong with Nori's, but sounded as if it thought it did.

“That was different,” Ori said, as primly as Dori would. “And you know it.”

“ _How_ different?” Nori asked, and without looking, she knew exactly which of his sharp smiles he was wearing.

“Ori? Oh, you brought Eilífr!” _That_ was Dori. “What a nice surprise.”

The kind voice and the strong arm around her shoulders pulled her out of the words she was trying to pin down on the page.

“Oh,” she said, blinking. She was sitting down again. That was nice. “Hello, Dori. We're in your kitchen. The new one,” she added, because it was clean and airy and had shelves for the beautiful tea things that the elegant dwarf loved. The old kitchen had been dark and small and ugly, but it was far away and could safely be forgotten now.

“Yes, dear. It's been far too long since you came to visit.”

“We thought Ori had locked you up with that musty hoard of his,” Nori drawled.

“S'not musty,” Ori muttered, sounding more like her old Ori, instead of the Master Historian. Who was hers, too, but not the same way.

“Some places it is,” Eilífr said. “But I have a new job, Nori, if I can get the contract right.”

Nori shot a surprised look at someone behind her, then grinned a real grin, the one that would make him the best-looking of the Ri brothers, if he'd let more people see it. “Don't get into a sweat, little scribe,” he said. “You can write those things in your sleep— looks like you're about to, anyway.”

“She's had a long day,” Ori said.

“Poor thing,” Dori said, and there was suddenly a pretty tea cup in front of Eilífr, full of a reddish tea that smelled of cinnamon and cloves.

It was too sweet, but she drank it down anyway. “Captain Dwalin?” she asked. “Why are you everywhere today?”

“Why are you?” he asked, as he lifted a much larger mug.

“Ori owes me dinner,” Eilífr said. “And Dori always thinks I need feeding.”

“You do, dear,” Dori said, pouring more tea into her cup. “Ori and Eilífr were nearly inseparable when they were children, and we helped looked after her when her father . . . couldn't.”

“All of you?” the Captain asked, glancing at Nori.

Nori shrugged. “I lent a hand once or twice.”

But Eilífr didn't like thinking about that so she shook her head at the Captain. “Did anyone ever tell you that you look like Lord Balin? Except . . . “ She waved her pencil. “Not? At all?”

His left—no, his right—eyebrow rose. “She wasn't like this before. Or not so much.”

“There, Lord Balin did that same eyebrow thing,” she said. “But your eyes are gray and his are brown and laugh more . . . no, yours are doing it now, too. And your names rhyme, so . . .”

“She's just a little lost in her craft, at the moment, is all,” Ori said. “And she hasn't eaten since before Eightbell.”

Dori made a disapproving sound, accompanied by the rattle of spoons and crockery. “We'll fix that right now.”

Nori snickered. “You'll get little sense out of her until you do.”

“If only food could cure _other_ people so easily,” Dori said, with an air of longsuffering.

Eilífr focused on Nori, or rather, the distinctive shape of Nori’s hair. “My head is like a hammer made of fuzz,” she said.

He patted her hand. “I'm not surprised, little scribe. You forgot to eat again.”

“I had to stay with the scrolls and then Lord Balin finally came out and wanted me to explain things. You're touching me,” she added. “You don't usually touch people.” Neither did she, anymore, except for Ori, who was _Ori_ , and Dori, whose hugs were crafted out of safety and comfort.

“I've been making special exceptions, lately,” Nori said, smirking.

“Could I learn to do that?” she asked, because Nori always told her the truth, even if it hurt to hear.

The Captain spluttered in his tea, but Nori leaned forward and gave her his real smile again.

“There's a fair chance,” he said, gently. “Mind who you practice on, though.”

She nodded, thinking of white hair and broad shoulders and clever brown eyes that crinkled in the corners . . . but then shook her head, because nothing like that would ever go in a contract. Of any kind.

Not for her.

“Whoa, there,” Nori said, producing an apple from somewhere and handing it over. “Better eat this before you get weepy.”

“I don't get weepy,” she said, but ate it anyway in five bites, seeds and all, and burped into the back of her hand. The thumping in her head quieted a little, and so did her thoughts.

One of them nudged her. “Why didn't you _say_ you were Lord Balin's brother?” she asked the Captain.

“You didn't give me much chance this morning,” he said, eyeing her as if she was a riddle he was trying to work out. “Most people don't see the resemblance, even when they know.”

“I hadn't seen him, yet.” She turned to Ori, who was bringing a loaf of bread to the table. “Why did Lord Balin's note to you say “ _Done”?_ Did you place a bet?”

“Won one, actually,” Ori said, looking smug.

Eilífr's eyes narrowed, but forgot why when Dori bustled back with bowls of thick meat stew and Nori produced a wicked-looking knife to cut the loaf.

Dori sighed at that, but fondly. The two older Ri brothers had grown closer since they'd left Ered Luin, or maybe they were just letting other people see it, now. The quest had changed a lot of things; maybe that was why Nori was so comfortable sitting next to a guard.

“You're the same Dwalin who was with the King's Company,” she told the Captain.

“I know,” he said, digging into his stew.

“Why haven't I seen you before?”

“You haven't been out of that Library lately,” Dori said.

“And Dwalin doesn't come into the Library much,” Ori said.

“Not much crime going on in there,” the Captain said.

“Not much of value there to stea—of any _easily resalable_ value to steal in there,” Nori amended, as two pairs of librarian eyes turned on him. “You should have recognized Dwalin's name at least,” he added. “That memory of yours is slipping.”

“It’s not _slipping,_ ” she said. “I haven’t been here long enough to know every dwarrow in the mountain by name.”

“But you’ve read my history of the Quest,” Ori said. “I know you did, because you tried to correct my spelling. Which was _fine._ ”

“There's only one _û_ in _rudurs_ _hakarruthûkh_ ,” she said. “You never get that right.”

“If I'd _wanted_ to use _claw_ instead of _claws_ —"

“You still would have forgotten _singular takes none, plural takes one_ , because you always do. And you could have introduced him.”

“I _did._ ”

“You _didn't._ You never said—"

“So,” Dori said, in a loud voice that shut Eilífr's mouth with a mutinous snap. “You'll be working for Balin, now. What are your duties?”

“I assume I'll be taking care of his appointments and research, though I hope he'll let me organize his documents. His chambers are a _mess_ ,” Eilífr said, dropping her spoon in her empty bowl. Ori shoved another piece of bread at her in apology, and she ate it.

“That's no surprise,” Dori said, taking her bowl. “He's taken the weight of Erebor on his shoulders, trying to keep it off Thorin's.”

“He looks tired,” Eilífr said, accepting the refilled bowl with a nod of thanks. “The kind that's so deep, it doesn't think it is.”

“You'll straighten him out, Eilí,” Ori said.

“He said my charts would be a help,” she said, into her stew. “I was afraid I'd overstepped by sending away all those dwarrows, but they didn't really need to see him.”

“You sent Balin’s petitioners away?” Captain Dwalin said, looking impressed.

“Not all of them. And not sent,” she said. “Suggested.”

“Sent,” Ori and Nori said together.

“I _suggested_ to several of them that didn't need to wait hours for Lord Balin when all they needed was a competent scribe or to swear out a complaint with the guards.” She finished her stew and sighed. “Thank you, Dori. That was wonderful.”

“You're welcome, dear. It's always flattering to know someone appreciates my cooking."

“It's delicious, Dori,” Ori said immediately. Nori rolled his eyes.

“Not all of Balin's petitioners may be so ready to respect your . . . suggestions,” the Captain said. “Can you handle the rich and royal as well as smiths and miners? Some of them—most of 'em—won't take kindly to being told no. Or anything else, either.”

“I don't know,” she said, honestly. “But the law is the law and rules are rules.” At his skeptical look, she added, “And if worst comes to worst, I still have that knifepen Nori gave me.”

“You mean penknife,” said the Captain, handing her another apple.

“No, I don't,” she said. But she ate the apple anyway.

 

 

 

Eilífr ended up drafting the contract at Dori's table, at his insistence. Ori provided parchment and inks, Dori provided more tea and platefuls of small biscuits, and Nori, who prowled around the room tossing and catching pepperballs in his mouth, had _opinions_ about confidentiality.

Even Dwalin, who stopped being “Captain” the second time she’d absentmindedly slapped his hand away from her favorite gingerbread gems, made a suggestion or two.

“My brother doesn't eat regularly, and he won't bother for his own sake. But if you put meal breaks in your requirements and tell him why, you might be able to get him to take them as well, for _your_ sake.”

“That should work nicely for the both of you,” Dori said, from his chair near the fire, where he'd settled with his own parchments and pencils. “Balin is a kindly soul.”

“Stubborn soul,” Dwalin grumbled. “Or he wouldn't've let things get so bad.”

“But wouldn't demanding extra breaks be . . . presumptuous?” Eilífr asked. They hadn't been part of the contracts she'd copied out, or signed herself, in the Blue Mountains.

“Lass, my brother might grumble, but he'd rather wait ten minutes than have you fainting from hunger.”

“I don't _faint_.”

All three Ri brothers stopped what they were doing and looked at her.

“Fine,” she said, and added meals to her list.

She rewrote the whole contract twice, until she was satisfied down to the last comma, and finally copied it out in her best hand on fresh parchment. “Done,” she said, flexing her hand. She stared down at the document with a mix of satisfaction and anxiety.

It was the best she could do—but would that be enough?

She straightened, wincing at the ache in her neck, to find everyone gone but Dori, who was drying the last plate. “It's finished. Thank you for dinner. And the biscuits. And for letting me stay so long.”

“You're always welcome, dear,” Dori said, putting the plate away and coming over to give her one of his warm hugs. “But we still have to talk about the most important thing about your new position.”

She frowned.

Dori clucked. “What are you going to _wear_?”

Eilífr groaned and dropped her head in her hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you're wondering, I share Eilífr's problem. I have reactive hypoglycemia (helped along with some ever-so whimsical endocrine tics) and I also can’t count on normal hunger cues. So if don’t pay attention—or overindulge my caffeine addiction, which I share with Balin—I can go even loopier than usual when my blood sugar tanks. If I ignore that, the crash ain’t pretty. Which is, come to think, a big cue.


	5. An Ironfist in a Gilded Glove

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I was searching for a date or a spelling or something in the LOTR Wiki (All Hail the Wiki), I coincidentally discovered a few general references to the different Dwarf Clans and the history of Orocarni and the Red Mountains and my imagination immediately grabbed 'em and ran.
> 
> Luckily, Tolkien didn't seem to do much with the place or its dwarrows, so I'm hoping to duck any objections anyone might have to making their shenanigans fit this story instead of the other way 'round -- though heaven knows I'm taking worse liberties.
> 
> And if we could just pretend that the canon timeline is more of a general fluid guide than a Real Concrete Thing and geography is something that happens in other stories, I'd appreciate it.

The negotiations, Balin judged, had reached the point where nothing of import would be decided and nothing new would be said, but most of what _had_ been said would be repeated more than once, and probably word for word.

Fíli, dressed appropriately for once in Durin blue, accessorized with only half his usual weaponry, shifted restlessly in the next chair, though his expression of interested concentration didn't change. He'd done well this morning, asking the right questions at the right time with the perfect balance of tone for a battle-wise young dwarf who knew he had much to learn about politics, but nevertheless outranked everyone else in the room.

And if half the parchment in front of his highness was covered with tallies of the various verbal ticks of the speakers and a detailed design for a broadsword hilt, the other half contained several notes pertaining to the matters at hand.

Balin was justifiably proud of the lad. He only hoped Kíli, who was giving the rest of the Ironfist contingent a carefully selective tour of Erebor, was doing as well—and that Thorin was keeping his temper in check during his formal breakfast with the King of the Red Mountains.

As one of the Ironfists jumped to his feet and launched into the argument he'd given an hour ago, Balin settled back into his own thoughts, though he kept an ear tuned just in case, and wondered how his new assistant was filling her time.

Eilífr had arrived that morning at the first count of Sevenbell, contract in hand and looking much improved from the disheveled, unprepared dwarrow of the previous day, though perhaps no less nervous.

To his pleasant surprise, she'd been wearing a tunic in the russet he preferred for his own robes, a color that warmed her pale skin and seemed to suit her much better than the sand-colored Library uniform, as did the more flattering cut. Her hair had been arranged a touch more fashionably as well, though the braids were still simply done and held only that single mourning bead. Her beard was neatly plaited as well, and her mustache and eyebrows, though still featuring a few irrepressible curls, had been well groomed.

He also noticed, as she paused by the window on the way to her chair, that her eyes were no less remarkable in the morning sun than they'd been by candlelight.

“Does the view bother you?” he asked, telling himself that he did so out of practical considerations, and not to keep her standing there a moment more.

His reward either way was one of her small smiles. “No, my Lord. It's beautiful.” She moved away and took her seat, folding her hands in front of her. “Though I suspect not everyone would think so.”

“You'd be right about that.” He smiled. “Quite convenient, sometimes.” He unrolled the contract and read it through, mentally noting a few things he wanted to discuss. Nothing was unreasonable on the surface, but it wouldn't do to agree immediately to all the terms without making sure both parties had a clear, precise, understanding of what was meant.

Then he read it again, for the sheer joy of it. The document, though simple in structure, was well-written, elegantly but specifically phrased, and provided just enough room for expanded duties—though the duties she'd given herself were already more comprehensive than he'd envisioned—while avoiding loopholes and protecting both their interests.

It was a very pretty piece of work, indeed.

He looked up, catching a strange expression on her face that didn't last long enough for him to recognize. It was replaced by a polite smile that couldn't quite hide a touch of anxiety.

“Regular meal breaks?” he asked. It wasn't unheard of to request food allowances, but usually only for deep mining or traveling work; the contracts he'd written up for the Company had addressed meals, and the potential shortage of them. “Every four to six hours?”

“Yes, my lord,” she said quietly.

“But not the food itself?” It seemed an odd omission, or an odd mistake.

Her eyes widened. “No! Just the time. And only a quarter bell each, if that. I wouldn't even leave, unless you didn't want me eating in these chambers.” She took a breath. “I could do without, if you prefer . . . but it's for my health, not comfort or custom.”

She seemed embarrassed about it as well, which implied truth. “Hmmm. Ori would never forgive me if I starved you, so I suppose I'll have to agree.” He smiled as she relaxed. “Now, about your rest days . . .”

Going through the few points he'd chosen didn't take long and the very few additions, deletions, or compromises that he proposed were quickly negotiated.

Except for the last one.

“No, my lord,” she said. “That wouldn't be fair.”

“Fair?” he asked, staring at her. “You've given yourself a list of duties and responsibilities that I wouldn't have dared require, and you've barely asked for enough to live on.”

“I don't need much—"

“You need a place to live and the Eastern Quarter isn't inexpensive.”

“I prefer to stay in my room at the Library. Master Ori suggested it, for convenience's sake.”

“Did he?” Balin frowned. The Library was in the Central Quarter, several levels down. But convenience could mean many things, some of which wouldn't necessarily involve courting braids. “Do you and Ori have an understanding?”

“An under—oh. No,” she said, her eyes going wide. “ _No._ Not at all. But I'll be doing research for you in the hours I'm not needed here, and you've already agreed to allow me to work for the Library in my own time. And I'd feel saf—I feel at home there, my lord.”

He caught her slip and thought about arguing that the Eastern Quarter had more guards than the public space of the Library, but he knew how seriously Ori and his people took the security of Erebor's irreplaceable written history. And she wasn’t wrong about the convenience.

“Even so,” he said instead, “you haven't asked for a housing allowance.”

“The work I do for the Library will cover compensation for my room,” she said.

“Will it provide a clothing allowance, too? You didn’t mention that, either.”

Her brow wrinkled. “I don't need one. I have sufficient, and the work shouldn’t be physically difficult.”

“Lass,” he said patiently, “my honor won't stand for paying you less than you're worth.”

“You don't know what I'm worth, yet, my lord.” Her mouth went stubborn. “And my honor won't let me cheat you.”

Only his many years of diplomacy kept him from rolling his eyes in exasperation. “Then I propose a compromise: I'll agree to your terms for one month. After that, I’ll pay you as much,” he held up a finger as she opened her mouth, “or as little, as I think you're worth. Agreed?”

And if he ever found out who had made this talented dwarrow doubt herself to this degree, that person and he would be having words.

She stared at him. “One year.”

“Two months.”

“Six months.”

“Three,” he said. “And I’ll also be paying you any bonus I believe you have rightfully earned, in whatever form I think appropriate. I'm not an overly generous dwarf,” he added, “but I do like to encourage exemplary service. You may ask anyone you like.”

She'd tried to argue, but he'd refused to budge. “Fine,” she’d said, finally. “I accept.”

He'd added the relevant lines himself and they both signed it. He’d allowed the ink to dry a moment and tucked the contract away in a locked drawer with a sense of satisfaction that had been all too rare lately.

Then he'd given her a bound ledger-sized book he'd thought might do for her appointment charts —"It's not a _gift_ , lass _,_ it's to help you help _me._ ”—and she'd spent a good portion of the morning acquainting herself with his regular schedule and the meetings he knew he would be attending over the next weeks.

Starting with the one he was in now, which finally seemed to be winding down.

The Ironfist finished his encore recitation and resumed his seat. Fíli sat up a bit and Balin waited for the lad to bring things to an official close.

“What say you to _that_ , Lord Balin?” asked an all-too familiar voice.

Fíli picked up his pencil and made a diagonal tally mark across four previous marks in the corner of his parchment.

 Balin repressed a sigh and smiled politely. "Exactly what I said before, Lord Brýni. Erebor wishes to establish  _equitable_ trade with Orocarni. And we will be glad to discuss any additional terms that will be of benefit to  _both_  kingdoms."

As he'd feared, another Ironfist took that as reason enough to begin repeating _his_ argument—though at least this one, he thought, had been blessedly brief the first time.

But Lord Brýni didn't appear to be listening; he was gazing at Balin, instead, a smile playing over his sharp features as he toyed with one of the peridot beads in his reddish beard.

Fíli’s elbow bumped his side and he glanced over to see the younger dwarf drawing a tiny heart over the tally.

Balin shot him a stern look, but at least the lad was still paying attention. And he wasn't _wholly_ wrong, either; Brýni had been overly interested in Balin's views on everything from architecture to entertainments since he'd arrived. If it had been any other high-born Red Mountain lord, Balin would have assumed he was being tested and almost certainly patronized.

Perhaps that was his purpose, but Brýni seemed oddly sincere in his admiration, which was even more troubling.

The speaker stopped speaking.

"Lord Balin?” Lord Brýni asked.

Before Balin could speak, Fíli raised an eyebrow and said, “I believe Lord Balin has already offered his detailed opinions on each relevant point. I suggest we take a few days to reassess our positions.” He stood up, parchment in hand, forcing the others to do so as well, and offered them a royal nod before striding out.

Balin paused to offer a few general and exceedingly brief invitations to enjoy the hospitality of Erebor, before following suit.

Fíli was waiting for him in the hall. “Better hurry,” he said, customary smirk firmly in place, “before Brýni decides he needs your views on proper inter-Clan courtship braids.”

“That's neither funny nor true, lad,” Balin said, picking up his pace regardless. With luck, they'd reach his Office Chambers before the others cleared the door.

“It's sweet, really,” Fíli said, keeping up with little effort. “And he's not a bad sort, for an Ironfist. Which isn’t saying much.” He lowered his voice. “What did you think of all that song and dance back there?”

Balin grimaced and shook his head, keeping his temper under strict control until his antechamber door was safely closed and locked behind them.

“Thorin and I hammered out a basic trading agreement with King Svellr's council months ago. We expected to negotiate—Mahal, we expected to fight them for every single concession—but now . . . _now,_ they're arguing just to wear us down, and they'll _keep_ arguing because they don't just want to get a foothold in Erebor's future trade alliances, they want a _piece_ of us.” He threw open the door to his inner chamber. “And they're _not_ going to get a blessed _—"_

He stopped short, for two reasons.

The first was the vast expanse of empty table.

The second was his assistant, who was no more than five feet from him, gripping a large knife as if she knew how to use it, her face frozen in fear.

Fíli spoke over his shoulder. “Have you been robbed?” There was a pause. “Is that the thief?” His voice was light, but Balin heard the tell-tale slide of one of the lad's short swords being readied.

Eilífr had already straightened from her defensive crouch and tucked her knife away so quickly, Balin couldn't tell exactly where it had gone. “I'm sorry, my lord,” she said, her cheeks blazing. “I didn't know it was you.”

“I should hope not,” he said, trying to keep his voice as calm as possible. That blank, defeated look from the previous day was creeping onto her face, and that wouldn't do, not when he'd seen real fear there before she'd recognized him. He offered her a gentle smile and was pleased to see her expression lighten. “But I apologize for startling you, lass; I should have knocked. You've been busy,” he added, looking around.

Behind him, he heard the snick of a blade slotting back into place. “Not a thief, then,” Fíli said, nudging past.

“My assistant,” Balin said, distracted by the abnormal absence of chaos.

The massive piles of parchments and scrolls had been moved to two of the wall bookcases, the reference books to a third. A ladder that he didn't remember owning leaned in a narrow niche by the map case, out of the way. And all of his lost quills and pens appeared to be in their holder on the small parchment cabinet, beside a collection of previously buried ink bottles of various colors.

“Your miracle worker, you mean,” said Fíli. He grinned and bowed. “Fíli, son of Dis, at your service, madam.”

She inhaled sharply and bowed. “Eilífr, daughter of Ólifr, at your service, your highness. Please, forgive my poor manners.”

“There's nothing to forgive,” Fíli said. “Except our charging in on you like a couple of Orcs.” He offered her a charming smile from between those ridiculous mustache braids of his, which, to hear Kíli tell it, had half the population of Erebor swooning and the other half designing beads for it.

Eilífr, Balin was pleased to see, didn't even blink. “I should have been paying closer attention,” she said. “I hope you don't mind, Lord Balin,” she added, turning to him. “I . . . tidied up a little.”

“A little?” Fíli said, laughing. “I can't believe it's the same room.”

Neither could Balin. ”How is all this arranged?” he asked.

Eilífr cleared her throat. “The books are shelved according to the Library's methods, though I can easily rearrange them in any way you prefer. I placed the contents of the table in their exact order from the far end of it to your chair.” Her hand pointed to the top shelf and swept down as she spoke. “I didn't want to disturb your personal system, in case you wished everything returned exactly as it was.”

“Thank you for saying that with a straight face, lass,” he said, drily, as Fíli snickered. “I don't wish it at all, thank you. “

Her eyes sparkled. “I can reorder them any way you like. By name? Or date?”

Balin's stomach suddenly reminded him of the hours since breakfast. “Lunch first, I think,” he said.

“Of course, my lord.” Eilífr went to the map case and picked up the schedule-book. “Will you be coming back straightaway? You have a meeting with His Majesty at Threering.”

“We'll have it here, I think. There are Ironfists about,” he added, to Fíli.

“Good point,” Fíli said, wandering over to the settee and dropping onto the cushions. “Count me in, as long as there's ale to wash away the dryness of the last few hours.”

“There's not ale enough in Erebor for that, lad.”

Eilífr had put down the schedule and produced a small book. “What would you like?” she said, charcoal stub poised.

“What would _we_ like.” He raised his eyebrows at her confusion. “Or have you eaten already?”

She blinked. “No, but it hasn't been—" The tolling of Onering interrupted her. “Oh,” she said, in genuine surprise. “I'll find something for myself once I return with your meals, my lord. I don't want to intrude.”

He gave her a stern look. “What kind of employer would I be, if I allowed you to violate your own terms the same day I agreed to them? And you can only intrude if you're unwelcome, lass,” he added. "I can assure you that the opposite is true.”

Her cheekbones went pink and her long eyelashes—had she always had those?—swept down.

“It’s settled,” Fíli said. “I think Bombur was planning to roast a—"

A knock came at the anteroom door. _“Lord Balin?”_

“Oh, no,” Balin groaned.

“Speaking of intrusion,” Fíli said. “Is there another way out of here?” he asked, getting to his feet.

“Nori says so,” Balin said, “but he's declined to give me the details.”

 _“Lord Balin?”_ The door rattled a little. _“Are you there?”_

Eilífr frowned. “Who is that?” she asked.

“Lord Brýni,” Balin said, suddenly feeling very tired. “I know it's not done to hide from visiting dignitaries, but—"

“It's done all the time,” Fíli said, folding his arms. “Just watch my uncle. This particular dignitary isn't the worst of them,” he told Eilífr, “but we've already spent hours talking with and to and _at_ him without making dent nor difference. And, frankly, watching him make eyes at his lordship here wouldn’t exactly aid the digestion.”

Balin rubbed his eyes. “He has not _made eyes_ at me.”

“Oh, hasn't he?” Fíli clasped his hands together and fluttered his lashes. "What think you, Lord Balin, about the trade routes to Belegost? The Elves of Mirkwood? The _trees_ of Mirkwood? The current fashions in beard jewelry you don't wear? The flavor of the wine you aren't actually drinking?"

Balin huffed in irritation. “We'll wait him out.”

“Care to place a small wager on who gives up first? So much for lunch.”

Eilífr cleared her throat. “If you and his highness could please move behind the door, my lord?” she asked. “A little more, please. Thank you.”

“Why?” Fíli asked, though he did as she'd requested. “Oh,” he said, as she slipped into the antechamber. “Shouldn't we just close the door, instead?”

Blain shook his head. “She's letting him see for himself that we aren't here,” he said quietly, putting his eye to the crack between door and jamb. “He'd never believe her otherwise.”

“Smart,” Fíli whispered.

Eilífr walked to the outside door, brushing at the front of her tunic and tugging at the back hem, then slid the lock and pulled on the door handle, revealing Lord Brýni, who had just lifted his hand to knock again.

“My Lord,” she said, bowing. “How may I be of service?"

He dropped his hand. “I wish to speak to Lord Balin on a matter of some import,” he said, in the pleasant tone of someone who was used to being obeyed. “Please tell him I'm here.”

“ _Import_ ,” Fíli snickered softly. “Chance would be a fine thing.”

Balin elbowed him.

“I'm sorry, my lord,” Eilífr was saying, “but he and Prince Fíli aren't available.”

“Aren't available?” Brýni peered past her into the Chamber, where the two hidden dwarfs went very still. “Why?”

“They said something about a meal, my lord.”

Brýni scowled. “But I was _told_ he was always here. . .” He tapped an impatient foot. “I'll wait. Send for refreshments and ale. I'll have them by the fire in there.”

He took a step, but she did not move. “Lord Balin did not give me permission to allow anyone in his Chambers today,” she said, making it a simple statement of fact.

“I'm sure he won't mind.” He tried to step around her, but she countered, placing herself directly in his way.

“He would, my lord,” she said. “Lord Balin has a great appreciation for protocol and manners. Even the most high-born visitors,” she added in a conspiratorial tone, “have not endeared themselves by entering his offices without invitation or announcement.”

Brýni paused at this. “They haven't?”

She shook her head. “Not at all. The consequences were . . . rather embarrassing for certain parties who very much wished to make a good impression.”

Balin grinned at that and Fíli made a soft noise of appreciation.

Brýni seemed undecided. “You're Lord Balin's servant?" He gave her a slow, head to toe perusal that had Balin bristling where he stood.

"His assistant, my lord." Her voice remained deferential, but her right hand had crept around to the small of her back, and Balin wondered if her hidden knife was about to make an appearance.

"Hmmm . . . That's a fine bead you wear," he said, suddenly. "How did you come by it?"

"It's a family heirloom, my lord." Her voice did not invite questions.

"Is it?" He gave her an indecipherable look. "Do you wear it in mourning?"

Fíli exhaled at this breach of manners. “What does he—?"

Balin waved him silent.

"In remembrance," Eilífr said, her tone going cool. “Is there anything else, my lord?”

The Ironfist dwarf paused. “When he returns, tell Lord Balin I was here to—no. Tell him I wish to see him at _his_ convenience. Please,” he added, unexpectedly.

“Of course, my lord. May I have your name?”

“Brýni, son of Buldi,” he said, his eyes fixed on her. “Of Orocarni. Do you know the Red Mountains, Mistress. . ?” He paused.

“I regret I have never been there, my lord,” she said. “I will pass on your message the moment I see His Lordship." She bowed, shut the door, and threw the bolt with perhaps a little more energy than was needed. When she turned, her expression was unreadable.

“That was interesting,” Fíli said, quietly.

“Yes,” Balin rubbed his chin. “It was.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fear not -- Eilífr is NOT a lost princess. Of Anything.
> 
> I promise. 
> 
> Hand to Tolkien.


	6. Of Fashion Sense and Families

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for all your encouraging comments and kudos!
> 
> Here's a little more history. And tea. 
> 
> And unrecognized mutual attraction, because even brainy, observant people have blind spots -- which sure makes it easier on us writers, doesn't it?

When Eilífr had opened the door, she hadn't been thinking about which Clan Lord Balin's unwanted visitor belonged to, only that he didn't belong _here._

Lord Brýni hadn't done anything to alter her opinion.

He was handsome enough, she supposed, if you liked the look of velvet robes in a green color that glowed like lichen. Or light brown beards that had been tortured into breastplates of gem-studded braids that would have given Dori pause—and Nori _ideas._

His lordship’s fashion choices seemed to belie his intelligence—those pale green eyes were far too sharp—and she couldn’t entirely fault his taste, if he admired Lord Balin as much as Prince Fíli claimed.

But that didn’t make up for his _manners._

And even if she'd found him the most intelligent, charming dwarf in Middle Earth, Lord Balin didn't want to speak to him, and that was that. So she'd put herself between them without hesitation, which gave her a sense of relieved satisfaction—she _could_ deal with rude, high-born dwarrows—followed by profound dismay.

Because it hadn't been her _employment_ she'd been protecting in that moment, but her _employer._ And her thought hadn't been _my job_ or _my duty,_ or even _my honor,_ but simply, and overwhelmingly, _MINE._

She'd gone too long without food again, she'd thought, as she'd tricked the overconfident lord into using proper etiquette. Her mind couldn't possibly be working correctly, if it thought it had any right to be possessive of a dwarf she barely knew, let alone a respected, brilliant dwarf of the line of Durin, _let_ _alone_ one of King Thorin's Company. 

Whom she'd nearly attacked, for no better reason than he'd walked through his own doorway. It was a wonder she'd lived through the embarrassment, much less remained in his service, though her mistake had made a truthful, if twisted, warning for Lord Brýni.

Unfortunately, it had made him look at her. _See_ her. 

And she’d remembered exactly whom she was facing.

Despite her father's warnings, fueled more by hatred and loss than logic, Eilífr had never been worried about what the Ironfist Clan might do if they discovered her family. Unless they wanted to hasten the inevitable end—and there was little point, after all these centuries—there was nothing more they _could_ do.

Except turn her into an object of pity.

She'd frozen in place as his lordship had asked his rude questions in Lord Balin's hearing, but found her sense of perspective after only a few words. She'd lost nothing, really. Lord Balin might not mention it at all—why should he care?—but if he _did_ , it would help her recall her place. 

A good meal would take care of the rest, she thought, as she slammed the lock against the interloper.

She hoped.

 

 

“Well done,” Lord Balin told her, after she'd returned.

Eilífr ducked her head, trying to focus on the pleasure of a job well done, rather than the leap her heart made at his praise. “You put me in charge of your schedule, and Lord Brýni wasn't on it,” she said. “What kind of employee would I be, if I failed to perform a basic duty the day I was hired?”

He smiled at that, but she could see the questions in his eyes.

Prince Fíli was a welcome distraction. “I've never heard someone lie so well with the truth before,” he said in admiration. “And I've met wizards! You must teach me.”

“You have guile enough, when you bother to use it,” Lord Balin said, lifting an eyebrow. “You and your brother both. No need to overburden my assistant on her first day.”

I'm sorry, your highness,” Eilífr said. “I can't go against my master's wishes. Not on my first day.”

“Good,” said Lord Balin. “Then you won't argue with me when I tell you're taking your contracted break right now.”

“No, my lord,” she said. “I mean, I won't argue.” An ache was growing between her eyebrows, and whether it was a delayed reaction from dealing with Lord Brýni or hunger, food would help. But it wouldn't do to keep Lord Balin or the Prince waiting; she'd eat her apple and bread as she walked to the kitchens, to save time. "I'll be as quick as possible," she said.

"None of that, lass," he said. "Send for a runner—that's what they're for."

“But if food is delivered,” she asked, “won't it be obvious that you're here?”

“Brýni's ego wouldn't allow that,” Fíli said. “If he’s having Balin's door watched, he'll reason that you're taking advantage of Balin by ordering a feast for yourself, rather than admit he isn't welcome. Don't forget the ale, please,” he added.

“Here, lass,” Lord Balin said, tossing her a small bag that clinked when she caught it. “That should be enough.”

The bag was far too heavy for two meals. “How much ale am I to order?”

“A small cask—don’t interrupt, lad, small is enough—and three portions of whatever Bombur is making today,” he said, moving to the table. “There's a kettle for tea, if you'd rather. I think I would.” He moved past the fireplace to a small, unobtrusive door that Eilífr had noticed but not opened.

“Three?” she asked.

 ”Consider it your first bonus,” he said, opening the door to reveal a cupboard with a small pump set into a stone sink. He pulled a large kettle from a higher shelf. “You've earned it.”

“Don't bother arguing with him,” Fíli said in a loud whisper, “it's difficult to get Balin to part with a coin, but when he does, it's nearly impossible to give it back to him.”

“Hmmph,” Lord Balin said, but Eilífr saw him smile as he filled the kettle.

An hour later, Eilífr's headache was all but gone. She'd heard about Master Bombur's talents in the kitchen from the Ri brothers, and found that they hadn't exaggerated. Their meal, which had been brought quickly by four runners, was delicious and plentiful and just what she'd needed.

Surprisingly, the company helped relax her as well. She never would have thought she'd feel so comfortable sharing a meal with the Crown Prince of Erebor; but then, Ori had told her so many ridiculous stories about both of their highnesses—some of which had been cheerfully confirmed by Prince Fíli himself during lunch—that she couldn't truly be in awe of him, royalty or not.

Lord Balin was proving to be a different matter—she was so wary of becoming too comfortable in his company that at first she'd had trouble being _acceptably_ comfortable in his company, deciding early on that concentrating on lunch rather than conversation was the safest option.

But she still thoroughly enjoyed his opinion of Ironfist fashions.

“Even magpies would find their obsession with bright, sparkly things excessive,” he said, slicing a bit of roast venison. “I had to have all the lamps in the room repositioned after the first meeting so I wouldn't be blinded every time one of them moved.”

“And all those _pastels_ ,” Fíli said, setting down his tankard and stabbing a potato with his fork. “I've nothing against the lighter shades of gems, but there's no excuse for any self-respecting dwarf to wear robes the color of pink tourmaline.” He took a bite, chewed and swallowed. ”Especially if he's going to wear three yellow sapphires in each of his braids. He _rattles_ when he walks," he added, "which provides a bit of warning, at least."

Lord Balin winced. “Lord Tóki,” he said, shaking his head. “Though to be fair, I doubt the poor lad dresses himself, or knows how. I'm fairly certain he's only part of the delegation because his brothers couldn't leave him home by himself. Not that they're any better,” he added. “You can read Lord Túki's entire biography in his hair, if you can squint past the amentrine. _Lavender_ ,” he muttered, as if the word itself offended him.

“Kíli says Týki’s a good sort,” Fíli said. “They've bonded over a love of archery and a lack of facial hair.”

Eilífr blinked. She'd heard a few disparaging remarks about the younger prince's bare chin since she'd arrived, though most dwarrows appeared to admire his dedication in sacrificing his beard in favor of his bow. But Prince Fíli obviously didn't mean his remark maliciously—he'd sounded like Ori pointing out Dori's inability to drink from any vessel without raising his pinkie.

If her own brother had lived, maybe she would be sharing things about him with such familiar, fond scorn. At least she had Ori, who was a brother in all but birth and far more than she deserved.

“The lad still wears too much topaz in that mop of his,” Lord Balin was saying. “Mahal help us if Kíli decides to keep his hair back with all that filigree nonsense.”

“Balin doesn't wear jewelry because he wants to be mysterious and unique,” Fíli told Eilífr, gesturing with his fork.

“ _Neutral_ is the word you want, my lad,” Lord Balin said calmly, “and _not worth robbing_ would be the phrase, though I don't suppose either matters that much now. I've become used to going without braids or baubles over the years, but my hair has grown to the point where I may have to reconsider.” He glanced at Eilífr. “Many of us cut our beards after Azanulbizar,” he explained quietly. “But my brother and I felt that was not enough.”

“My father did the same,” she said, without thinking.

“He was there?” he asked, his gaze moving to her shoulder.

She realized she was fiddling with her bead and dropped her hand. “Yes,” she said, and waited for more questions.

But he only nodded and said, “It was a dark time. But,” he added, lifting his mug high, “here we are in Erebor at last, safe, sound, and looking into the future instead of trying to stare down the past.”

Fíli lifted his as well, and Eilífr followed suit, drinking when they did and wishing it could be so for her.

“So why hasn't Dwalin started growing out his hair, too?” Fíli asked, before taking a large swallow of ale.

“He has.” Lord Balin grinned, gave the choking prince a couple of slaps on the back, and winked at Eilífr.

She stared at him and stuffed another roll into her mouth.

It didn't do a bit of good.

 

###

 

Balin set aside his initial list of terms for Hvítkárr and Hird’s contract, and took a moment to watch Eilífr, who was standing at the other end of the table, sorting through the contents of his map case.

His assistant certainly wasn't one for being idle, and he was sure by now that it was her natural state rather than a short-lived effort to impress.

He got to his feet, picked up his mug, and went to the large teapot keeping warm on the fireplace hearth. As was his habit, he'd filled it with his favorite tea right after lunch, and had spent the afternoon walking back and forth to empty it.

Eilífr had offered several times to fetch it for him, but he'd told her he sat down enough as it was. 

This was true, though he also found that stepping away from his work for just a moment or two could bring clarity. Dwalin usually rolled his eyes at that, saying that if he didn't have time enough to pace properly, he was working too hard.

This was true, too, though in a single day, his unexpected assistant had managed to give him the promise of a bit of breathing room.

She glanced up as he passed her. “Almost done, my lord,” she said. “What shall I do next?”

He ran down a mental list. “Go over the permissions for the jewel merchant I'm seeing tomorrow, if you would. Make sure there's nothing amiss.”

He hadn't wanted to question her about Brýni's reaction to her mourning bead in Fíli’s presence; whatever else it meant, or didn't, he knew her feelings about it were deeply personal. But now he found himself reluctant to shatter the productive peace of the afternoon, even to satisfy his concerns.

That didn't mean he hadn't learned a few things about her in the meantime, he mused, as he poured his tea.

It was obvious that the regular meal breaks were necessary; Eilífr ate like a hollow hobbit and had wrapped and set aside the scant leftovers from lunch with the embarrassed air of someone who knew it.

He’d also noticed that her reserve wasn't completely natural to her. She hadn't said much during lunch, even when her mouth wasn't full, but Fíli's troll story had made her grin and the one about the fewmet-blocked tunnel had her almost laughing out loud.

She'd covered her mouth with a hand, but her eyes had danced over her fingers, and he'd thought what a shame it was that she seemed surprised that she was enjoying herself so.

He thought he'd spoiled that, mentioning Azanulbizar, but he'd wanted her to know that his shortened hair and beard had been his choice—a way to mourn failure, rather than a punishment for a dishonorable crime.

He frowned. That it meant so much to be in the good graces of a dwarf he barely knew was a bit disturbing . . . though of course it was better to have his assistant's respect, rather than her distrust.

Balin set his mug at his place, went to the bookcase and grabbed a stack at random. Soon, he was intent on parsing out a petition for materials to shore up the Northern Precipices, which were threatening the ventilation shafts. The necessity was undeniable, but Balin suspected the estimates were inflated . . . and there were a few exclusivity clauses that bothered him . . .

He only came to himself again when Eilífr cleared her throat. He blinked at her. “Yes, lass?”

“I've finished, my lord,” she said, setting the sheaf of permissions by his elbow. “I've marked three places where the wording is ambiguous, but otherwise, they seem fine to me.” She picked up his mug. “More?”

He thought about getting up, but it seemed like too much effort. “Yes, thank you,” he said, rubbing his eyes. He glanced out of the window, which displayed a rapidly darkening sky. “Though I doubt there's much left.”

“I'll make another.” She went to the fireplace and pushed the kettle nearer the fire with her foot before going to the pump and swilling out the pot.

“I prefer—”

“Black leaf base with two parts bergamot and one of rosemary. And two spoonsful of sugar per cup,” she said, sounding doubtful.

“Aye,” he said, surprised. “And how do you know that without trying any?”

“Dori told me your favorite blend and I saw you add the sugar yourself. Are you certain you want such strong tea so late in the day, my lord?” she asked. 

“My day isn't half over,” he said, rubbing his eyes again. ”It shouldn't surprise me that you know Dori, considering the close eye he keeps on his youngest brother.”

“I know Nori, too,” she said, lifting the kettle by its stout wooden handle. “But he told me not to recognize him in these Chambers unless he gives the signal.” She filled the pot from the kettle and popped on the cover.

“That would explain the extremely thorough confidentiality clauses in your contract." He paused. “Do you know what Nori does for Erebor?”

“Not exactly,” she said, straightening up, “and I doubt I should. But I know what Nori _can_ do, and will, to keep his family and friends safe.”

That hidden knife of hers was suddenly less of a mystery. "Which are you?" he asked.

“I’m Ori's friend, my lord, which makes me a _bother by association,_ or so I'm told.” But her easy smile told him that she was comfortable with the acerbic ways of the middle Ri brother. 

“I very much doubt that,” he said, as she picked up the candlelighter and lit the taper from a fireplace ember.

“I'm lucky Dori doesn't mind extra bother,” she said, approaching the table with the careful movements of someone who knows that parchments and fire mix far too well. She lit half of the candelabra before moving to the wall sconces. “He's been very good to me over the years.”

Dori was always nice to children, but he was also very discerning. His acceptance and approval of Eilífr—obvious enough, if he was sharing tea blends with her—did much to dispell any concerns Balin might have had about her cryptic exchange with Brýni.

Though that didn't mean he still wasn't concerned _for_ her—and the strength if his worry was worrying in itself.

“Your families were close?” he asked, and watched her go still a moment, before extinguishing the taper.

“Only by proximity,” she said, setting the ‘lighter in its stand and stepping over to the teapot. “My father . . . was not social.”

“And your mother?” he asked gently.

“She died when I was young,” she said. “After that, it was only my father and me.” She turned, his mug in her hands, and carried it over. “And now, just me.”

He frowned. Her words were quiet, but seemed to carry a strange weight to them. “Your Clan—”

“Just me, my lord,” she said, in the same even tone. She set his tea down gently on the table and met his eyes. “Will that be all, my lord?”

If ever a question had more than one meaning, that one did, he thought, staring into her gold-layered gaze, and the answer to all of them was a resounding _no._  

But it had already been a long day, for both of them, and further revelations could wait.

“For now,” he said. “Tomorrow at Sevenbell, please, lass. We'll prepare for the true test of your schedule book.”

She offered him a smile with a bit of relief in it, bowed and left him alone with his thoughts. 

After a while, he stood and went to the shelves of reference books. He selected one that Ori, or perhaps Eilífr herself, had sent with a load of requested research materials over a year ago when he was writing up preliminary overtures to Svellr’s court. At the time, he hadn’t found the pre-Nanduhirion political history of the Red Mountains to be relevant.

As he brought it to the settee, along with his mug of tea, Balin had the uneasy feeling that circumstances had changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last of the chapters that were up when this story went down, so updates will be a little slower from now on.
> 
> The first part of the next chapter features Nori, though, so I'll try for sooner rather than later.


	7. The Seedcake of an Idea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first of the post-deletion chapters. I hope those of you who have been patiently waiting for me to wade through the original story will think it's worth it!
> 
> I'm going to put in a trigger warning for a non-graphic mention of a past rape attempt ( with the emphasis on attempt) by an extremely minor OC who never appear in the story and does not deserve a name. The mention is near the end of the first section, so if you want to skip the bit between "Relentlessly" and "Fear is a reflex," or just skip to the second section after "Relentlessly" (look for the ###) to be sure, it won't hurt my feelings. Take care of yourselves.

There had been five serious attempts on Balin’s life since the Reclamation of Erebor, three of them while Thorin and his heirs were still recovering from the Battle.  Until the coronation, certain factions had viewed any of the line of Durin as vulnerable obstacles to a barely-occupied Throne. 

But those who had thought the King's cousin and trusted advisor would be an easy target had discovered the hard way that diplomacy and protocols weren’t his only weapons—and that there were very few who could come close without his notice.

The only warning Balin received that one of those few had arrived was a slight breeze that set the candlelight dancing across the page of his book, before a long finger pushed the Orocarni history upright so bright hazel eyes could read the title. 

"Interesting subject,” Nori drawled, sitting back on his heels. 

“Aye.” Balin let go of the hilt he’d grasped and pulled his hand from under the settee cushion, leaving the blade in place. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" 

“Just checking in.”  Nori rose in a graceful motion and dropped into the armchair.  “Bofur says someone’s playing a neat little bait-and-switch with mine inspections, Thorin’s popularity has survived the spring mudslides,  and my people finally tracked the source of those nasty little rumors about our dear Prince Kíli.” 

Balin raised an eyebrow.   “Iron Hills or Firebeards?”  Dain wasn’t interested in supplanting Erebor’s heirs apparent, but that hadn’t stopped a few of  his loyal dwarrows from making plans on his behalf—and the Firebeards were simply following their ingrained traditions of despising anyone in power who wasn’t them.  

“Nothing so honest, I’m afraid. A rejected suitor, who was given a sharp reminder of proper courting etiquette.” Nori produced a knife and examined the tip.   “I sent her beard to Kíli, with compliments on his good taste.” 

“There’s a first,” Balin said, setting the book aside and getting up.  “Tea?” 

“Wouldn’t say no. Strong as you have it. Five sugars.”  

"How is it that you have any teeth left?" 

Nori snorted.  "Ori's worse’n me.  Likes a little tea in his cup of morning honey, he does.  He must’ve picked up the habit from our friend the giant bear."  He disappeared the knife and accepted the steaming mug.  “Ah, lovely. Anything I should know?” 

“Nothing you wouldn’t,” Balin said, sitting down. “I hear you’re acquainted with my new assistant.” 

“I am. And I see she’s been busy.  What d’you think of our little scribe?”  

"She's . . .” Brilliant.  Efficient. Intriguing.  Attractive.  “. . . everything Ori said she was," Balin said, sitting down.  "And a little bit more.” 

"Moreish, is she?" Nori said, raising a braided eyebrow. ”In what way?” 

Balin raised one of his own. “I didn’t expect to see a Stonefoot dwarrowdam in Erebor.” 

Nori cocked his head. “Is that a problem?” 

“I don’t know.  Oh, not for me,” Balin said irritably, as Nori’s expression hardened. “The Longbeard and Stonefoot Clans have never had any quarrels and it wouldn’t be her fault if we had.  But one of our Ironfist visitors seemed very interested in that bead she’s wearing.  And he mentioned Orocarni as if he was testing her.” 

Nori hummed into his mug. 

“According to this,” Balin said, putting a hand on the book, “the Red Mountains used to belong to the Stonefoot and Blacklock Clans, until the Ironfists took control.  There are still a few Blacklock families there, though most seemed to have moved south, but no one seems to know exactly what happened to the Stonefoot dwarrows, except that they stood with Thrain at Azanulbizar.” 

And perhaps fell with him—but surely not all?

“Not much for history, me,” Nori said, idly, though his eyes remained sharp, “but I remember Eilífr’s Da having a terrible hate-on for the Ironfists. Paranoid about them, he was, even in Ered Luin.” 

“She said—no, she  _implied_  that she’s the last of her Clan. I assume I misunderstood her, but—”

"You didn't," Nori said calmly. 

Balin stared at him. "Is that _possible_?” 

"I’m sure she thinks so—her da hammered that home often enough.  But much as I hate agreeing with the useless bastard, none of my sources have turned up anything but graves and disinterested denials in all directions.  No disgrace or dishonor, mind,” he said.  “Just . . . nothing.” 

Balin repressed a shudder.  They might have been homeless, scattered, and suffering, but the Longbeards had never come close to being wiped out.  “There but for the grace of Mahal . . . “ 

“Too right,” Nori said, with unexpected emphasis, and Balin was reminded that the master thief’s honor had never been as negotiable as advertised and his devotion to his family had never been in question.  “Poor little scribe—it isn’t easy being next to Clanless in a place like Ered Luin.  Or penniless.  Or small. Lucky thing she and Ori found each other.” 

“She said Dori took an interest.” 

“He good as adopted her.  Offered it official-like, when her Da passed.  But she’s a responsible one and old Ólifr never let her forget where her loyalties were supposed to lie.”  Nori’s lip curled.  “Never mind where his own should have been.” 

Balin considered this.  “Is she in trouble?” 

“Everyone’s in some kind of trouble,” Nori said, after a pause. “Why the concern?” 

 ”She pulled a knife when Fíli and I walked in on her this afternoon.” 

Nori smiled. "Good for her," he said.  "Which one?" 

“A short dagger," Balin said, noting the implications of that cheerful question.  “You seem to have taken an interest in her as well.” 

Nori shrugged.  “I might have taught her a few things.” 

"Is she one of yours?" He didn’t think so—or maybe he simply didn’t want to think so.

"Not professionally, no,” Nori said easily. “She has potential, but too many principles.” 

"And personally?” Balin asked, before he thought. 

Nori cocked his head.  “Well, now,” he murmured.  “Isn’t that interesting?” 

Balin felt his face heat, but pressed on.  “She was afraid, Nori. Fíli and I walked through that door,” he said, pointing, “and she was terrified. If she’s under your protection, then you know why. Answer the question.” 

 ”Which one?” Nori said, smirking into his mug. 

Balin gave him a look that had once stopped Thorin in his tracks. “Is she in danger?”

Nori exhaled. “Not from the Ironfists, I shouldn’t think—how did she deal with Brýni’s little visit?” 

“She was nervous,” Balin said, not surprised in the least that Nori knew about it, “but handled him very well.” 

“Did he announce himself first?"

"Relentlessly."  Balin frowned.  “If she didn’t mistake us for Ironfists, who did she think we were?”

Nori was quiet for so long, Balin wasn’t sure an answer was forthcoming. “Her first master,” he said, finally, “held . . . certain views about the role of dwarrowdam apprentices.” His lip curled. “Especially those whose families had no money, no standing, and no Clan strength behind them.”

“He didn’t—”

“Not quite. Ori forgot his writing case and walked in on them, just in time.” His face displayed something that could have been a smile. “Dori was waiting for him outside—and my brother has strength to spare.”

Balin felt like he’d been punched in the stomach. “She doesn’t think Icould _ever_ —” 

“She didn’t know it was you, did she?  Fear is a reflex—and I’m guessing she was embarrassed when she came to herself again.  Thinks the very world of you, she does,” he added softly, in a tone that managed to make the words a reassurance and a warning. “So step carefully, if you would, my lord.” 

Balin nodded.  “She’s in no danger from me.” 

"Good." Nori chuckled, breaking the tension.  “And not from me either, to answer your other question,” he said, standing up and tucking away the knife. “I have one or two principles left . . . and somewhat different tastes.  I’ll keep watch over the Ironfists— though they can’t blow their noses as it is, without it getting back to me. You might want to prepare for a courting gift from that quarter, by the way.” 

“Please tell me you’re joking.” 

Nori drew himself up into a haughty pose. “Romance is no laughing matter,” he said, spoiling his grave tone with a snicker.  He bowed. “Don’t stay up too late, m’lord Balin.  Wouldn't want to disappoint your many admirers for want of beauty sleep.”

I’ll keep that in mind,” Balin muttered.  He didn’t bother to watch Nori take his leave, or even listen for clues. The times he’d tried, the Spymaster had used the door as if alternate routes had never occurred to him. 

“Nori?” he said.

The silence behind him paused. 

“Her first master. Who is he?” 

"Who _was_  he,” Nori said, in the same soft tone he’d used before.

“Good.” Balin picked up his book and found his place. 

  

 ###

 

When Eilífr arrived for her second day, she found the door to the inner chamber wide open, though the room itself was empty, the only light coming from the rising sun and the dull glow of the banked embers in the fireplace.  Nothing indicated that Lord Balin had arrived, save for the unlocked door.

Perhaps he’d been called away suddenly, and had left it open for her, trusting the corridor guards to allow only her to pass. Or he’d been so exhausted from overdosing on tea and paperwork that he’d forgotten to lock it when he left.  

Regardless, she was glad to have a little more time to herself before facing him.  

She’d said enough last night for a dwarf of his brilliance to figure out the rest of her history, or to ask the right questions, if he cared to. After a few restless hours spent worrying about it, she’d reminded herself that no one as fair minded as Lord Balin would blame her for an existence beyond her control, or . . . or try to take advantage.

No, if he decided he had to dismiss her, for the sake of his position, he would do it kindly and gently. And she would go back to the Library, where she would immerse herself in her beloved historical law. She was certain Lord Balin would still allow her to do his research.

Somehow, this wasn’t as comforting as it should be.

She went to stir the fire and set it ablaze with a few scoops of dried dragon fewmets, which King Thorin had decreed should be used for fireplaces and furnaces until the Mountain was cleared of the stuff, which had proved too light for building and brickmaking and disastrous as fertilizer.  

She’d been appalled by this when she’d first arrived, but the smell was less offensive than she’d assumed, and the grayish clumps burned hotter than wood or coal, if not quite so long. There’d been rumors that certain forgemasters and merchants had been hoarding the stuff, though it would take a century at least to clean it all out.  

After filling the kettle and rinsing the teapot, she readied the blend that Dori said Lord Balin favored at breakfast. She winced as she measured the leaves, remembering how he’d made a point of telling her he’d learned such things about his lordship on the road to Erebor, and not under more intimate conditions.

The possibility hadn’t crossed her mind before, and she wished it had stayed uncrossed; while she knew Dori participated in _very active_ intimate . . .  conditioning . . . . she preferred to remain as ignorant as possible about the details.

And she absolutely refused to wonder why Dori’s assumed Lord Balin’s personal affairs were of any interest to her.

Or think about why she felt a frisson of relief under her acute embarrassment.

Setting the kettle on the edge of the fire with a bit more thump than it needed, and the teapot a little more gently on the hearthstone, she turned to see a book half hidden in the back of the settee.

It didn’t surprise her; Lord Balin appeared to have the habit of setting books down wherever he happened to be and then becoming annoyed—generally with himself, to his credit—when they weren’t where he’d originally picked them up. She tugged the volume free, careful of the pages, and looked at the cover.

Her breath caught for a moment, as she recognized it.

But only for a moment; it was ridiculous to assume that Lord Balin’s choice of reading material was based on idle curiosity about his nobody of an assistant, rather than the important contracts he was negotiating with the representatives of a powerful King.

At least this book would give him the unbiased truth about the conquering of the Red Mountains; it was the best neutral history available, written by neither the conquerors nor the conquered. She’d argued with Ori about sending their only copy outside of the Library, but he’d insisted that “B” would take good care of it.

When she’d found it amid the chaos yesterday, she’d made a note to tell Ori she’d told him so and placed in in the reference bookcase for safekeeping, meaning to take it with her when she left.

Of all the times to forget about a book!

“But now I can tell Ori twice,” she said, looking at the cover. “Or maybe three times, if I have to return to his service.”

“What’s that, lass?” Lord Balin said from the doorway.

“Nothing, my lord,” she said, quickly placing the book down on the settee cushion. “Good morning.”

“I believe it will be,” he said, stepping aside to allow two runners, carefully carrying a large, covered platter between them, to pass through the doorway, and a third carrying a flask and several goblets. A large dwarf nearly as wide as he was tall, finely dressed with a gorgeous, thick loop of red-gold beard, followed behind them.

The runners placed their burdens on the table. Two left, but one remained at respectful attention to one side. Eilífr thought he might be the one who had helped her the day before.

Lord Balin smiled at her, in no way like a dwarf who was about to dismiss his assistant after the shortest employment in history. “Have you met Bombur?”

“I haven’t had the honor, my lord,” she said. “Though I know of his great deeds for Erebor and was fortunate enough to enjoy his craft yesterday.” She bowed. “Eilífr, daughter of Ólifr, at your service.”

The dwarf gracefully returned her bow, without bending from his considerable waist. “Bombur, son of Borfur, at yours,” he said, in a soft rumble, before moving to the table.

“I see you’ve started the kettle,” Lord Balin said, glancing at the kettle. “Good. Did Dori happen to tell you my favorite—”

“Three black, one spice, and one orange,” she said. She lowered her voice. “My lord, I thought your appointment with Master Bombur was at Ninebell. Did I make a mistake?”

“Not at all, lass,” Lord Balin said easily. “Bombur suggested an earlier time and I suggested that breakfast would be an appropriate apology for blotting your schedule book.”

Master Bombur smiled and began unloading the tray, assisted by the runner.

“No apology is necessary,” she said, before noticing the sizeable pile of seedcakes he was constructing. “Oh! _You’re_ Ori’s secret baker! I should have known. Did he tell you how fond I am of those?”

“No, but my Brambur, here, did,” Master Bombur murmured, putting a large hand on the runner’s head and ruffling his red hair.

“I gave you your father’s pastries as a reward?” she said, shaking her head. ”Oh, dear. They’re special enough, but I suppose you can have as many of them as you want, just for the asking.”

“Not so, Miss,” Brambur said, earnestly.  “Or not yesterday. I was assigned the Fourring shift and missed the morning baking _and_ breakfast.  That hungry I was, too,” he added. “It was very kind of you, Miss.”

“You kindly showed me a shortcut or three and slowed down enough so I could follow,” she said, smiling at him. “I had to show my appreciation.”

The young dwarf beamed.

“Do you have a shift today, lad?” Lord Balin asked.

“Yes, m’lord.  As soon as I finish helping Adad.”

“Off with you, then,” Master Bombur said.

“Wait.”  Eilífr went to the table, took a large cake and a napkin, and wrapped up one in the other into a neat package.  “Racing all over the mountain on other people’s business is hungry work.”

“Thank you, Miss!  Call for me, if you need anything!”  He hugged his father as far around as he could reach, bowed to Eilífr and Lord Balin in two quick bobs, and took off.

“He’s a good lad,” Lord Balin said.

“Aye, that he is,” Master Bombur said, a fond smile on his face. “Too much energy in his legs for the kitchens, though. This’ll do until he settles to a craft. Is the kettle boiling, yet?”

Eilífr brought over the teapot and they sat down to fried mushrooms, pastries, fresh baked bread, sausages, and an enormous block of cheese. At Lord Balin’s prompting, Master Bombur told several stories about his numerous children, including Brambur, who was his third oldest son and apparently not even close to being the rascal of the lot.

The thought of such a large, happy family had Eilífr smiling wistfully about what might have been . . . until Lord Balin sent her a questioning look and she remembered where she was.

She quickly rallied and told a story about Ori breaking his pen-holder and using an apple instead. By lunchtime, he’d forgotten and eaten the fruit, which stained the inside of his mouth a bright blue. With her help, and a bit of advice from Nori, they’d managed to keep it a secret from Dori for four days, until Ori had come to breakfast on the fifth day and yawned, displaying a blue-mottled tongue and tonsils.

“Dori did get the stain out,” she said, grinning at the memory, “but Ori still has terrible reactions to fingernail brushes and fish oil.”

“I shall remember that on his birthday,” Lord Balin said, before launching into a tale about he and his brother stealing all of then-Prince Thorin’s clothes as he slept, back when they were all dwarflings together, and how Lady Dís had caught them red-handed---and then not only helped carry out their crime to the last stocking, but added the perfect touch to the prank all by herself.

It was all Eilífr could do not to choke on her tea at the thought of majestic King Thorin Oakenshield wearing his mother’s best ceremonial gown so he wouldn’t have to dash through the mountain stark naked to find something more suitable to wear. Master Bombur’s laugh was silent, but full bodied, and absolutely contagious.

After sharing laughter like that, it was as easy to agree to drop the honorific from Bombur’s name as if had been for Dwalin, especially as Lord Balin didn’t appear to object.

In fact, he looked oddly pleased about it.

Eventually, even Bombur’s pleasure at her appetite couldn’t encourage Eilífr to _think_ of taking just one more bite of anything.  He made quick work of wrapping up the remaining food and handed a her bag of seedcakes.

“Dealing with other people’s business all day is hungry work,” he said, a twinkle in his eye. “And dealing with Balin here must be even more so.”

“I’ll agree to your first point and object to the second,” Lord Balin said, patting a few stray crumbs from his beard. “Care to comment, lass?”

“Only on the lovely breakfast,” she said, certain she wouldn’t need to eat for another ten hours, at least. “It was wonderful.”

“You’re welcome,” Bombur said. “It’s nice to see someone appreciate my cooking.”

Lord Balin snorted. “Everyone appreciates your cooking, Bombur. They can’t help it.” He leaned forward in his chair. “So what do you need to keep doing it?”

“What _don’t_ we need,” Bombur said, his smile dimming.

Eilífr quickly moved the dishes aside, wiped her hands, and found the lists she’d prepared for the meeting. “Here are the supply estimates Mas—I mean, Bombur sent,” she said quietly, handing copies to both dwarrows. “The last columns are the prices of each measure, taken from Lord Gloin’s records. The blue ones are the average from last year and the red ones are his estimates for this year.”

She’d never met Lord Gloin, though she’d occasionally heard his voice booming through the Library. But she’d developed a deep appreciation for the Treasurer’s thorough recordkeeping, as well as his willingness to allow the Library to archive copies of Erebor’s financial records. So much was lost to Smaug, from inventory to expenditures, that Ori and Lord Gloin both thought it best to have a second set for safekeeping.

Their prudence had saved her hours of research time. And earned her a smile from Lord Balin.

“Good work, lass. We’ll also need a—yes, perfect,” he said, as she spread out the great, colored map she’d chosen, with Erebor in the center and travel routes carefully marked.

“Yes,” Bombur said, looking pleased. “But could I borrow a—oh," he said, as she handed him a pen and a fresh stack of parchments for notes. She set a second set near Lord Balin’s hand and a third for herself before distributing inkwells, setting those well away from the edges of the map.

“And before we start, perhaps another—”

She refilled Bombur’s mug from the teapot and slid the sugar bowl closer to him.

“Thank you,” Bombur said, bemused. He looked around the table. “Where did I put my—”

She handed him a clean spoon and a saucer to rest it on.

“She does that,” Lord Balin murmured, as he studied the list.

Eilífr frowned. What was she doing?

“Does she?” Bombur grinned. “How nice.”

“Very,” Lord Balin said, absently.

Bombur winked at her.

Eilífr fought down a confused blush and concentrated on taking notes as Bombur and Balin discussed the quantities of foodstuffs the kitchens needed per month and how much could reasonably be supplied by Dale and Mirkwood.

“We can manage this year, perhaps, but next year might be a bit difficult, and the year after that . . . Erebor is outgrowing its means. Not financially,” Lord Balin added, “but King Bard’s people can’t eat gold, any more than we can. And Thranduil will simply charge us more and more until Gloin finally dies of apoplexy. There must be another way.”

“The Shire has crops aplenty,” Bombur said. “And they’ll gladly trade for good ironwork and useful items.”

Eilífr found the Shire on the map, a green shape near the Blue Mountains. She’d traveled along the edges of it on her way to Erebor, and from the looks of their farms, they probably did have food to spare.

But . . .

“But,” Lord Balin said, sighing, “there’s no way to get the crops here, whole and unspoiled, unless we can convince Gandalf to convince the Eagles to agree to fetch and carry for us.” He pointed at the map. “The rivers either aren’t in the right place or are too treacherous."

“We’ve our own fields, such as they are,” Bombur said, pointing to a different area. “But no one in Erebor seems to have the right craft to work them. Could we pay someone to work them for us? Or teach us how?”

“Dale farmers may know our soil, but they’ve their own plots to tend. We need expert help through one or two growing seasons.  The Iron Hills are barely self-sufficient . . .”  He sighed.  "Asking the Ironfists for this kind of help is asking for trouble as well, but pride doesn't fill the belly any better than gold does."

Eilífr cleared her throat. “Excuse me,” Eilífr said, “but Hobbits seem to know everything about growing anything.  I didn't see many on the road from Ered Luin, but the few I did were driving carts full of vegetables that they said they'd grown in their own small gardens.  And Nori says they were all born with a double handful of green thumbs.”

Lord Balin shook his head. “Hobbits never leave their Shire, lass,” he said.

“Why would they?” Bombur murmured.

“One left,” she said. “Why did he?”

There was a long, loud silence.

“I—" she swallowed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

The table started to shake. Bombur was laughing his big, silent laugh. “She’s right,” he said, grinning.

Balin grinned back.  “She is.”

She blinked at them. “I am?”

Lord Balin's eyes crinkled in the corners and his smile did funny, warm things to her insides.  "Yes, lass," he said.  "You are."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm slowly working the whole Company in here, which wasn't actually my original intention, but I'm rolling with it. There weren't supposed to BE any Hobbits in this at all . . . 
> 
> I don't know where Brambur came from, but in my headcanon, there are two ways to Bombur's heart and his kids are one of them. And he may very well come in useful later.
> 
> I do know that I'm now the proud owner of a list of the weirdest possible Bifur/Bofur/Bombur-esque names you're never going to see. And I used one of them for Bombur and Bofur's father. Sorry.
> 
> Fewmets, if you care,  are technically the droppings of any hunted animal—I looked it up—but if Madeleine L'Engle used the word to mean dragon droppings, that’s good enough for me . . .


	8. Oliphaunts and Invitations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for being so patient with me!
> 
> I survived Nanowrimo with 50,145 words of something strange that has nothing to do with dwarrows and was set in the Midwest instead of Middle Earth.
> 
> As a reward, I started working on this next chapter and I hope to update more regularly from now on—even though I’m also trying to decipher my handwriting enough to type up the something strange.

Eilífr sat behind her table in the antechamber and noted the name and residence of the elderly dwarf in front of her.

"Lord Balin will see you at Fourthring in two days,” she said, taking his papers, fastening them together with a wire loop, and setting them to one side with the others. “If he's called away during that time, we'll send you a message and reschedule at the earliest opportunity." 

He thanked her and left. Only one dwarf remained, content to whittle as she waited, the shavings falling neatly into one of the pots Eilífr had placed around the room for the purpose, remembering the state of the floor after the last Open Day. 

She allowed herself to slump in her seat, just a bit. It had been a terribly busy afternoon— loud, too, when Master Hvítkárr and Master Hird had been ushered into Lord Balin's Chambers ahead of those who had arrived earlier. 

Somehow, she’d made herself heard over the clamor, carefully explained the new system, and soon had everyone lined up and making appointments of their own—or listening to her as she advised them to seek help elsewhere. 

They’d still argued, some of them, but they’d listened, all the same.

Once word spread, she hoped Open Days would prove to be more peaceful. She'd already made some adjustments to the charts, so Lord Balin would have a proper amount of time to prepare between appointments, instead of using the few minutes that might be leftover from the previous hour.

But the trial was a success, or she thought so. And now that things had finally quieted, she would be able to get started on the outline for the Shire contrac—

The outer door flew open and Lord Brýni strode in, resplendent in pale purple robes and sparkling diamonds.   He was followed by another dwarf, clad in yellow and a dazzling fortune in pale blue orocarnite that rattled as he moved.

She wondered if the second Ironfist might be Lord Tóki—though neither Lord Balin nor Prince Fíli had mentioned that his beauty, even marred by stern discontent, nearly put the Ri brothers to shame.

“I wish to speak with Lord Balin,” Lord Brýni said. “I did not expect to wait so long.”

The dwarrowdam snorted in her corner.

The probable Lord Tóki frowned and moved closer to her.

“My apologies, Lord Brýni,” Eilífr said quickly, hoping to forestall an incident, “but Lord Balin is busy at the moment. He has another appointment at Fivering. But he may be able to give you a moment or two before that, if he can.”

“No, that won’t do at all,” Lord Brýni said. “Go tell him that I am here.”

She lowered her voice. “Remember what I said about Lord Balin’s view on manners, my lord.”

“Manners? What do manners—oh. Yes.” He tapped a finger against the faceted diamond of one of his many rings. “How long shall I be waiting?”

“His meeting should be ending soon,” she said. “But it is almost Fivering and Mistress Ǫlrún has been promised that hour. His Lordship should be free at Sixring, unless he has evening plans.”

She glanced at the other Ironfist, who was still looming over Mistress Ǫlrún. As she watched, the dwarrowdam blew a few shavings from the small wooden figure and tossed to him.

Eilífr tensed, hoping that the guards outside would hear her if she called for help—or perhaps Lord Balin, though she hated to disturb him. She moved her hand carefully to her most convenient knife.

The dwarf stared the carving in his hand . . . and his frown transformed into an absolutely stunning smile.

“Look, Brý!” he said in a melodious voice that reminded Eilífr of Dori’s tenor flute. “It’s an Oliphaunt!”

“So it is, Tóki,” Lord Brýni said, taking the interruption with remarkable grace. “Something to add to your collection. How much would you ask for it, Mistress?”

“He can keep it, milord,” Ǫlrún said, her face a map of pleased wrinkles over her salt and pepper beard. “That smile of his is payment enough.”

Lord Tóki made a delighted sound and then something that might have been a happy Oliphaunt sneezing.

Eilífr couldn’t help smiling and turned back to Lord Brýni, who was studying her with an odd expression that smoothed out just as she glimpsed it.

“ _Does_ Lord Balin have plans tonight?” he asked.

The Oliphaunt made a ruder sound. Ǫlrún chuckled.

“I’m not privy to His Lordship’s personal schedule,” Eilífr said.

“No? As protective as you are of his time?”

To her relief, the inner door opened before she had to make a reply.

The jewel merchant appeared, his resplendent beard braids giving the Ironfists a lesson on excess done with good taste. “I shall do as you say, my lord,” he said, bowing. “Thank you.”

He smiled and bowed to Eilífr as well. “And thank you, Mistress Clerk; you have saved me much worry, see? You must visit my shop soon. I will make you a good price.” He eyed Lord Brýni’s beard, and stopped briefly in his tracks to blink at Lord Tóki, before leaving.

Lord Balin walked out. “Mistress Ǫlrún, good afternoon. Eilífr, when you have a moment—Lord Brýni,” Lord Balin said, his tone changing instantly. “Have I forgotten a meeting?”

“His lordship was hoping to have a moment to speak to you before Mistress Ǫlrún’s time began,” she said, just as the Timebell struck. “But he agreed to wait until she’s finished with her business.”

“You did?” Lord Balin said.

“Of course,” Brýni said, shooting Eilífr and indecipherable look. “I would never presume to take up your time with such a gracious craftsman as Mistress, ah . . .”

“I don’t mind,” Ǫlrún said, drawing another piece of wood from her pocket. “As long as this young dwarf keeps me company. Another Oliphaunt?” she asked Lord Tóki, who immediately sat next to her in a clatter of jewelry. “Or something else?”

Eilífr looked at Lord Balin, trying to apologize without changing her expression.

His own softened and he exhaled. “It seems I have a little time after all,” he said to Lord Brýni. “Come in. Knock if we take too long, lass,” he added, allowing the Ironfist through the door and flashing five fingers at her twice before following.

Before the ten minutes was over, Lord Brýni swept out of the room, appearing disappointed, but not upset.

“Mistress Ǫlrún?” Lord Balin asked.

The old dwarrowdam and Tóki considered the new carving. “It doesn’t look like a Warg, yet,” Tóki said.

“I can send it to you when it’s done, lad,” Ǫlrún said. “Or I have a shop in Dale. You could see the other things I’ve made.”

Lord Tóki looked at Lord Brýni.

“If we have time,” Lord Brýni said. “Perhaps one of your brothers can take you, if I cannot.”

A pout appeared on Lord Tóki’s face, then disappeared. “All right. Thank you, Mistress.”

“You’re very welcome, laddie.” She patted his hand, rose to her feet and went into Lord Balin’s chamber. Lord Balin bowed to Lord Brýni, and shut the door.

Eilífr busied herself with her appointment book, hoping that the Ironfists would take their leave.

“Are we finished here?” Tóki asked.

Lord Brýni nodded to him and turned to Eilífr. “It appears that Lord Balin does have prior commitments this evening,” he said.

She was about the murmur something appropriate when his sharp gaze caught hers. “Do you?”

Eilífr felt her body freeze and forced herself to give him a puzzled look. “Me, my lord?”

 

###

 

Balin was pleased with the day’s work and even more pleased that he’d managed to avoid having dinner with Lord Brýni, which had been couched as an opportunity to explore opportunities for cultural exchange, outside the basic treaty.

There was little doubt what kind of exchange Brýni had meant, but Balin had played innocent, asking which of the other delegates would be there. Lord Tóki, for example, clearly had much interest in fashion.

A flash of something that looked like jealousy had crossed Brýni’s face. “No, I’m afraid not,” he’d said, far too quickly for disinterest. “His . . . brothers have a prior claim on his time.”

Lord Balin shook his head. If Brýni thought he would ever be interested in an empty-headed decoration like Tóki—or a political marriage, for that matter—he was very much mistaken.

When—if!—Balin ever had the time to consider marriage, he didn’t want a trophy or an advantageous alliance, he wanted a partner. Someone to challenge him and work with him and complement him, instead of merely complimenting him. He wasn’t too old to hope for a bit of romance, either, but he was mature enough to want the kind that would evolve into the deep, contented fondness he remembered between his _amad_ and _adad_.

He wanted . . .

Eilífr came into the room, distracting him from his musings, and began quietly tidying the documents and parchments on the table.

“Well, lass,” he said. “I believe your methods are a success. I might prefer more time between appointments, though.”

“Of course, my lord. Will ten be enough?,” she said, as if she was thinking of something else. She turned to straighten the shelves, which were already in perfect order.

He already knew that was a sign that something was amiss. Perhaps she was hungry; he didn’t know if she’d bothered to have her snack.

“I should think so,” he said. “You’ve worked hard today, lass,” he added, “and it’s past time you were having your dinner.” He paused and cleared his throat. “I’d planned to have something sent up from the kitchens for myself, if you would like to join me?”

She looked at him and blinked. “Dinner,” she said, as if she’d never heard of the meal.

“Only dinner,” he said, keeping his tone gentle. “I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable, lass,’ he said, “If you don’t wish to, then that’s that.”

“I don’t, my lord,” she said.

“Oh,” he said, taken aback by her blunt answer. “That’s fine, then. I’ll see you tomorrow, bright and—“

“I mean, _you_ don’t,” she said, looking at him with eyes than didn’t quite focus. “Make me uncomfortable. Or not in an uncomfortable way. Shouldn’t that be impossible?”

“No,” he said, unsure of his place in the conversation and worried about her state of mind. “I don’t think much is impossible, with feelings.”

But . . .” She took a deep breath. “Lord Brýni has asked me to eat with him this evening.”

“Oh,” he said. “I see.”

“Should . . . should I go, my lord?”

He forced a reassuring smile. “Your contract gives me no control over your personal hours,” he said. “If you wish to spend time with him, I have nothing to say about it.”

“I don’t,” she said, desperation in her eyes. “I really, really don’t. And you do have things to say, or you should, I mean, you will. Because this isn’t personal at all—his asking me. He just wants me to tell him about you and the treaties and maybe other things, and I wouldn’t, ever tell him anything, my lord, believe me—but if I do, he’ll only know what we want him to know, but if I don’t—and I really, really don’t, my lord—then he might find another source that we don’t know . . .”

Everything suddenly snapped into sense. “Then we wouldn’t know what _he_ knows.” Balin grinned in relief. _We,_ she’d said. “Yes, I see. Breathe, lass,” he added. “And sit down.”

She went to her regular chair without argument. “I think,” she said, “I forgot to eat again.”

“I’ll take care of that,” he said, and went to make a fresh pot of tea, finding her store of leftover seedcakes in the cabinet. He brought them to her, along with an over-sugared mug of strong tea, before going to the corridor to find a runner.

When he returned, he brought the tea pot and his own mug to the table, and sat down. He noted that half the seedcakes were gone and refilled her mug before pouring for himself. “Better?”

“Yes, my lord,” she said, her face flushing. “I’m sorry, my lord.”

“Whatever for? It’s my responsibility to give you time to eat and I failed. Do you accept my apology?”

She stared at him, then nodded, stuffing half a seedcake into her mouth.

“Good. All right then: where and when are you to meet Brýni?”

“I’m to go to his chambers.” Her fingers clutched at her mug and she lifted it with both hands to take a long swallow. “At Ninering,” she said, when she could.

“No,” he said, before he thought. “No, I won’t allow it.”

“But my lord—“

He held up a finger. “You said I should have things to say, and I do and I will. If you meet with Brýni, you will be going as my assistant—regardless of what he might think—and that means you are under my protection. I know you can defend yourself, but if I can avoid putting you in a place where you may need to, then I will.”

She relaxed. “Yes, my lord.” She took another drink.

“Good. And besides,” he said, with a grin, “if anything were to happen to you, Dori would skin me alive, Nori would make sure I didn’t remain alive, and Ori would knit my pelt into a cardigan. So it’s completely in my best interests to keep you safe.”

“It would also be undiplomatic to knife an Ironfist before the treaties were signed,” she said, and then covered her mouth, looking apologetic.

“Another reason to forbid it entirely,” he said, though he found himself less concerned with the damage to the treaties than further damage to her sense of safety.

“But wouldn’t it also be undiplomatic for me to refuse him?” she asked.

“Not undiplomatic,” he said. “Simply rude. But you made a good point. If we can control what he knows, or thinks he knows . . .” He thought for a moment, watching as the rest of the seedcakes disappeared. “Send him a message,” he said, “saying that you will meet him at the Royal Kitchens. Bombur can arrange a private dining room—they are discrete, but not entirely private.”

She nodded. “Thank you, my lord. But what should I tell him? Or not tell him?”

“Just tell the truth for now, lass. You just started working for me and I’ve had you writing contracts and researching precedents. You know what Fíli and I let slip about the negotiations—and our irritation with the delays is common knowledge.”

“What if he asks about you, my lord?”

His eyes twinkled at her. “Let your conscience be your guide, lass. I’ve no secrets.”

“Everyone has secrets, my lord,” she said.

“Mine can’t do more than embarrass me,” he said lightly. “And my dear brother has told most of those already, to anyone who would listen.”

She smiled, her golden eyes glowing. “He’s told me one or two,” she said.

“Feel free to pass them on to Brýni—maybe he’ll lose interest. And feel free to tell him about the time Dwalin broke our _amad’s_ favorite jar, because he refused to let go of the handful of ginger biscuits he was trying to steal?”

To his delight, she laughed, a beautiful, full sound, without caution or restraint.

And he realized he had a new secret.

One he sincerely hoped Dwalin would leave alone, until he figured out what to do about it.

"I don't think that's the kind of story he'll ask me to tell," she said, sobering a little.

"No, perhaps not.  At least Bombur will provide you with his best fancy dishes; he's been defending the honor of Erebor singlehandedly since the lot of them arrived."

She sighed.  "I'd much rather have a simple meal with y—with a friend."

A knock came at the door and one of the hallways guard appeared, escorting a runner with a covered tray.

"And so you will," Balin said, "before you leave."

He was rewarded with another smile.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dwalin and his unseemly cookie/biscuit obsession—that’s concrete canon, right?
> 
> I don't want to tell you how long I went back and forth about the Master vs. Mistress thing. I finally decided that as long as there aren’t any humans or Elves around, no one would worry much about using female identifiers— as long as the dwarf identified as such identifies *herself* as such, but I’m going with the assumption that beads tell the tale if the wearer wants it told.
> 
> For those of you wondering about the orocarnite: I shopped around Gem5 .com (my go to site for Minerals All Dwarrows Should Know And I Don’t) for a light blue gemstone for Lord Tóki’s yellow ensemble, as he is apparently an Extremely Imposing Baby Duck. Turns out that high quality Benitoite can be expensive—as in, several hundred dollars per carat expensive— because it’s only been found in one area in California. And I thought, huh, and transplanted all of it to the Red Mountains. And that’s why you can’t find orocarnite if you google it. But believe me, no one should wear that particular blue with daffodil-colored robes.


	9. Beads, Cheese, and Broadbeams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for *another* late update -- my timeline became tangled and everything wanted to happen at once, so I had to pull things apart and stick them back together and shove other things into future chapters, because Bryni is very, very impatient.
> 
> But this ended up longer than usual and full of both intrigue, a clue or two, fluff and a bit of transition, so I hope no one minds?

A little before Ninering, Bombur himself escorted Eilífr to one of the decorative archways set between the Royal Kitchens and the larger of the main dining halls.  

There was no door, but they passed through a very short hallway, like the neck of a bottle, that opened up to a well-lit room with intricately carved walls. In the center, a fine wooden table had been laid for two, with the chairs to the right and left; neither she nor Lord Brýni would have their back to the door.

Eilífr was also relieved to see that they would be several feet apart: close enough for normal conversation, but far enough apart for her personal comfort.

“This room is for those who want to speak privately, but not intimately, over a meal,” Bombur said in his kind voice. “My oldest, Bifla, will be serving you herself, so you will never be alone with his lordship.” He smiled. “Balin was quite insistent about that.”

She felt her face heat. “Lord Brýni couldn’t possibly have any interest in me.” Or not seductive interest, anyway.

“Balin seems to think differently,” Bombur said mildly. “Will you wait here? I’m sure His lordship will want to make an entrance.”

Eilífr sat down in the chair facing the archway. It might not be strict etiquette, but she was far more concerned about the questions the Ironfist might ask—and far more worried that she might tell him too much or bore him with too little. If she didn’t do this exactly right, he wouldn’t want to use her as a source of information.

She had to do this right.

Some fashionable amount of time past Ninering, a sturdy young dwarrowdam with red hair came into the room, stepping out of the way just as Lord Brýni swept past her.

Eilífr, who had been standing in anticipation for the past few minutes, bowed. “My lord,” she said.

“Mistress Eilífr,” he said, approaching the table. “You look . . . charming.”

“Thank you, my lord,” she said politely, keeping all trace of disbelief from her voice. She’d brushed and rebraided her hair in a more elaborate style than she usually bothered with, but hadn’t changed out of her russet tunic. Dori would have something to say if he ever found out, but she was wary of looking like she was trying too hard.

Lord Brýni had changed, though she wasn’t sure of his purpose in doing so. His ensemble wasn’t quite as ostentatious as the one he’d worn to see Lord Balin, but the robes were still sumptuous, the jewelry still overdone---if not quite as overpowering—and the light, bright colors still clashed.

He might have been trying to show her she wasn’t worth his full display. Or, to be fair, he might have been trying to put her at her ease.

If so, it didn’t work.

Bifla pulled out the chair opposite Eilífr’s chosen side and Lord Brýni sat, spreading his robes to what was probably their best advantage, not that she could tell the difference.

She took her own seat with far less fuss, wondering what was supposed to happen next and silently thanking Lord Balin for the small meal he’d insisted she eat. She couldn’t afford to let her brain run away with her mouth!

Bombur’s daughter bowed and explained the first course in such detail that it was brought in before she had finished. After a golden-crusted pie had been set before each of them and their goblets filled, Bifla moved back to stand by the archway.

Lord Brýni didn’t seem to notice. “Is this a Longbeard specialty?” he said, prodding his pie with his fork.

“I don’t know, my lord,” she said, piercing hers with her knife to find the promised rich, meaty stew inside. The steam was fragrant with rabbit and herbs and root vegetables. “I believe that the Master of the kitchens is a Broadbeam.”

“Ah,” he said, extracting a piece of carrot for examination. “That would explain it.”

She sampled a bit of rabbit that fair melted into her tongue and closed her eyes to savor it. “Are all Broadbeam cooks as talented as Master Bombur, then, my lord?” she asked, after it was gone.

“I don’t doubt it,” he said, his words muffled by chewing. “Orocarni chefs prefer to use salt rather than herbs and far more meat than vegetables.”

“Oh?” she said, politely. “Well. I suppose crops would be lacking in the Red Mountains. Erebor is lucky to be surrounded by so much arable land.” It would be luckier if they knew how to use it, but that bit of information would remain unsaid.

He frowned, but before he could speak, she continued. “I believe Master Bombur has arranged for you to sample all of Lord Balin’s favorite dishes,” she said, adding, “They’re shield brothers, you know.”

He went still for a moment. “Are they?” he said.

It was a source of disbelief to Eilífr that so few outside of Erebor could list the names of each of King Thorin’s Company—most knew only the Durin line and their closest cousins but tended to remember the rest as a group.   According to Ori, this suited them all just fine, though Eilífr knew that Dori still went a bit tight-lipped whenever Durin genealogy was mentioned.

But this lack of recognition, especially for the Ri brothers’ contributions, had never sat well with Eilífr and now she found herself likewise stung on the behalf of kind Bombur.

“I’m sure you’re familiar with the Battle of Five Armies, my lord,” she said, conspiratorially. “Master Bombur was one of the Fourteen.”

“Was he?” Lord Brýni said.

“Yes, my lord,” Bifla said quietly, from her place beside the door. “He preferred to accept Mastery of the Kitchens rather than a place in the nobility.”

Lord Brýni glanced at her, looked back at his pie, and began to eat.

Eilífr looked at Bifla, and they smiled at each other.

*

The second course was fresh-caught fish in wine sauce, with a side of complaints about travel conditions between Orocarni and Erebor, which Eilífr filed away in her memory in case they would prove useful.

It seemed that Lord Brýni, along with most of the Ironfist delegation, had never been to the Blue Mountains—nor within several leagues of the Shire, which Eilífr thought was probably all to the good.

*

The third course was venison steaks, mushrooms prepared several different ways, and the first subtle inquiries from Lord Brýni about Lord Balin’s opinions of the treaty negotiations.

Eilifr answered truthfully, though she left out the truths that were actively insulting to the Ironfists. She also offered one bit of information—specifically supplied by Lord Balin for the purpose—about a possible compromise that Erebor might accept on a certain trade point.

“I’m surprised you would speak so freely of your employer’s secrets,” he said, his gaze sharp.

“It isn’t a secret, my lord,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “It’s common sense. You yourself have experienced the difficulties of the route; less per shipment means fewer delays, which means more shipments, which means, taken cumulatively, more profit.”

He paused, then speared another mushroom. “Perhaps you’re right.”

*

The fourth course was an astounding array of cheeses with small, savory scones and yet another refill of Lord Brýni’s goblet, which had been put to frequent use throughout the dinner.

With Bifla’s assistance, Eilífr hadn’t put away half as much ale and wine as he, but that was still more than she usually drank and she was starting to feel it.

He sat back in his chair and regarded her. “Your bead,” he said, gesturing at her braid. “Who crafted it?”

That wasn’t a question she’d been expecting, but she could see no harm in answering. “My mother did, my lord.”

“Does she take commissions?” he asked, after a moment.

“She died many years ago, my lord,” she said.

He blinked. “Oh. I’m . . . sorry for your loss.” He paused, uncharacteristically hesitant. “I don’t suppose you have any more examples of her work?”

“A few pieces, my lord,” she said, on more certain ground; it wasn’t the first time she’d been asked by those who recognized the style. “But I don’t wish to part with them. You understand.”

She expected that he wouldn’t understand at all, but to her surprise, he only nodded. “I would like to see them, sometime, if you wouldn’t mind.”

She did, but it was more diplomatic to nod. “The Jeweler’s Guild in Ered Luin might know if any of her work is for sale,” she said. “Dýrhildr's work is still well known.”

“Dýrhildr?” he repeated, frowning.

“Is something wrong, my lord?”

“No, no,” he said, selecting another piece of cheese. “You lived in Ered Luin? Before you came here?”

“Yes, my lord. We settled there when I was young.”

“I see. And what is a Stonefoot dwarrowdam doing in Erebor?”

 _Eating with the enemy,_ she didn’t say, though she did reach back to touch her dagger. Nori would rap her forehead for being so obvious, but she needed the reassurance. “Assisting Lord Balin to the best of my ability, my lord,” she said. “He doesn’t seem to care about such things.”

He bit into the piece of cheese and seemed to be thoroughly considering the flavor. “What _does_ Lord Balin care about?” he asked.

“Erebor,” she said.

“I meant on a more . . . personal level.”

Books. His brother. Good food. His friends. “He’s very fond of strong tea, punctuality, and well-written contracts, my lord. I’m sorry—I haven’t been working for him long.”

“But you must know whether he is currently accepting suitors?”

“His lordship is very busy,” she said.

“Is he craft-wed, then?”

“I don’t believe so, my lord.” She didn’t know for certain and would never dare to ask outright, but she assumed that Lord Balin would have used it to avoid unwanted proposals, if he could have. “I did hear him say that he has no time to spare for courting, what with the negotiations with your delegates running so unexpectedly long.”

“I see.” For a moment, an odd series of expressions crossed his face, before he smiled. “Well . . . I’ll just have to change his mind, won’t I?”

 And with that, dessert was served.

 

###

 

The next morning—or, to be accurate, not much later on the same morning she’d gone to bed—Eilífr dragged herself to the Eastern Quarter, hoping against hope that she wouldn’t be late.

She’d had a terrible time with her hair; having slept on her fancy plaits meant that kinks had set in odd places, so her usual hairstyle looked wrong and her beard absolutely refused to cooperate with anything she’d tried to make it do.

Finally, in a fit of sleep deprived temper, she’d stuck her head under the pump and drowned it all into temporary compliance. She’d yanked her comb through the wet strands until her scalp and chin ached, refashioned her single braid, jammed it through her bead, and let the rest go hang.

By the time she reached the inner office, her hair was crackling around her head with malevolent energy and the rest of her was definitely drooping.

She found the room empty once again, and hoped Lord Balin had _not_ been kind enough to think of breakfast. Her stomach was still regretting last night’s meal—not the food itself, which had been the best she’d ever eaten, but the sheer quantity of it.

Tea might help settle her stomach.

She went to stir up the fire, then picked up the kettle, and turned, only to stop short at the sight of Lord Balin fast asleep on the settee, his head propped up on the armrest. An open book covered half his beard, moving with his deep, silent breaths, and his tea mug was on the floor within easy reach.  

Eilífr’s gaze moved from the white mane flowing over his shoulders to the errant lock that fell across his forehead, almost touching his handsome nose. The laugh lines at the corners of his eyes and the stern ones that appeared between them when he concentrated had smoothed and even though he wasn’t smiling, he looked at peace.  

Reaching out to brush away the lock of hair, she realized what she was doing just in time, picked up his mug instead, and went to the pump closet.  

She filled the kettle as quietly as she could, set it just inside the fireplace, and studied him again, this time with a less selfish purpose. He hadn’t moved so much as an inch, and she noticed he was wearing the same clothes he’d worn yesterday, his boots tucked half under the settee, near his knees.  

Dwalin hadn’t been wrong about how badly his brother took care of himself. And she’d been right about how tired he must be.  

Sevenbell struck—perhaps she’d been a little early after all—and she tiptoed out to find a runner.  

 

###  

 

Balin opened his eyes, sat up, and grabbed his book just in time to keep it from falling to the floor.  His neck protested and he winced. 

He hadn’t meant to spend the whole night in his office again, but had decided to wait for a while, in case Eilífr made her way back after meeting with Brýni, even though he’d told her she wasn’t expected to do so.

It didn’t bother him that she hadn’t—on the contrary, that probably meant the dinner had gone well—but he hadn’t been able to sleep until Nori had sent word, well after Onebell, that Eilífr was back in her room at the Library, safe and sound. And alone.

The fire hadn’t burned down, yet, so he couldn’t have been resting for long, though he felt surprisingly refreshed for someone who hadn’t had more than a few hours’ sleep.  He glanced at the kettle, reached down, and frowned.

“Looking for this, my lord?” 

He looked up to see Eilífr holding out his mug. 

“Thank you, lass,” he said, taking it. The tea was fresh and hot and exactly the way he liked it. He drank half of it down and his brain started to wake up. “Are you all right, lass?”

Had something happened? Something Nori’s spies and Bombur’s daughter hadn’t caught? Maybe just being close to an Ironfist had triggered some kind of nightmare.

“I’m fine,” she said, looking puzzled. “A little tired—“

“But your hair.” It was loose and looked wild and soft at the same time, the strands gleaming all shades of gold and brown like the banded quartz marble he had in his pocket. “What happened?”

She immediately put her hands into it and tried to smooth it down though it only wrapped itself around her hands. Her beard crackled as she moved and he almost reached out to touch it. “I’m sorry, my lord.  I was afraid I was going to be late and I didn’t want you to wait for my report.”

“I can wait until proper morning, lass,” he said. “Why don’t you go get some sleep and come back at your usual time? Or better yet, come back at Onering—I’m sure I can manage until then.”

She blinked at him, then grinned, as if he’d told her a fine joke.  “Are you hungry, my lord?” 

He looked over his shoulder and saw a meal laid out on the near end of the table.  He also noticed the light streaming in through the window—it must be later than he’d thought. “You brought an early breakfast?” 

Her smile widened.  “An early lunch,” she said, just before the first tones of Elevenbell began. 

Balin shook his head at himself and chuckled.  “Well,” he said, leaning down for his boots, “it isn’t the first time I’ve fallen asleep here, but it is the first time anyone’s fed me for it.”  He did up the last fastener and stood.  “Will you be joining me, lass?” 

“I don’t know,” she said. “I’m still a bit full from last night.” 

“A cup of tea, then?” he asked, moving to the table and his rather substantial elevenses, as Bilbo would call it. “You can tell me all about your evening.”

She fetched several closely-written pages of notes from the far end of the table, sat across from him, and poured herself a cup of tea from the pot on the table. 

 As he tucked in and listened to her account of her meeting, he suddenly realized that she’d not only managed to come into the room without waking him, but had moved around it for several hours, stoking the fire, making tea, writing the notes she was referring to now, and even bringing in a meal.

Either he’d been more exhausted than he thought or he trusted her when he was sleeping more than he did most dwarrow when he was wide awake.

Wasn’t that interesting?

Her hand wandered out and stole half of a roll he’d split and buttered. She ate it neatly in small bites, and somehow never spoke with her mouth full, even though her explanations never appreciably slowed.

Smiling, he slid the plate a little closer to her.

“ . . . have to wait until the next meeting to see if he took the bait. But he did ask some questions of a personal nature,” she was saying. “Only whether you were craft-wed and open to courting. And a few things about my mother’s work; nothing overly rude or offensive. But I’m afraid he’s determined to press a suit, my lord.”

“ _You’re_ afraid,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I’m the one who has to admit Fíli was right.  What this about your mother?” he added, a bit concerned, despite her dismissal of it.

And perhaps a touch jealous, too, that Lord Brýni might know something about her that he didn’t—though that was ridiculous. If she had told the Ironfist anything personal, it would have been done under duress.

“He wanted to know who crafted my bead. It happens, sometimes, though usually when I’m wearing her other pieces.” She smiled and touched her bead. “My mother was a well-known jeweler and it’s nice when her work is still recognized.”

“She certainly was, if this is an example,” he said, meaning it. “My mother taught Dwalin and I how to recognize fine craftsmanship, though we had no talent for creating it at all.”

“Gísla,” she said, nodding. “I have seen her work. My mother died before she could teach me any more than the names of the stones she used, but I practiced until I dared to add names to this.”

She grasped her bead and instead of turning it so he could see, she pulled it off her braid and offered it to him with a shy smile.

He took it carefully, aware of the great honor, and examined the carvings. The Stonefoot symbol was there, beautifully rendered, and many tiny runes shone in the dark surface, making an interconnected pattern that echoed the symbol. He couldn’t tell that any of them had been carved by a different hand.

“May I ask her name?” he said gently.

“Dýrhildr,” she said. “My brother is there, too. He did not live long enough for formal naming, so I shouldn’t really have . . . but I’d been begging my parents to call him Brólfr and I do miss him, though we barely met.”

“I’m sorry, lass.” He found the two names, linked together by a single rune—but her father’s name was not there and he knew he couldn’t ask.

She moved her shoulders. “It was long ago, my lord.” She took back the bead and fixed it.

“Lord Brýni did not give you any trouble, then?”

“None that was unexpected, my lord.” She yawned, and covered her mouth, eyes wide. “Oh! I’m sorry, my lord.”

“No,” he said, chuckling. “I am. You worked at least half a shift more than your contract states you should, and you put in a full morning’s work besides. Take the rest of the day for yourself.”

“I don’t mind, my lord,” she said, or tried to say through another sudden yawn. “I have the corrected draft of the Shire contract to copy out for His Majesty and some scrolls to pull for tomorrow’s appointments. I just need another cup of tea.”

“I do mind—and your contract is very clear about work hours, tea or no tea.”

“You work longer hours than I do,” she said. “And you drink more than a kettle a day.”

“I don’t have a contract and my bad habits are mine, not yours. Don’t come back until tomorrow morning.  And don’t even think of digging around in the Library,” he added. “Or I’ll set Ori and Dori on you.”

She made a face. “It’s the middle of the day, my lord,” she said. “I won’t be able to sleep anyway, so—”

“Then you can rest,” he said. “This isn’t a punishment, lass; it’s a reward for a job well done.”

She muttered to herself, then sighed. “Yes, my lord.”

An idea came to him. He wrapped a few leftover pastries in a clean napkin and stood up. “Come with me, lass.”

He went to the corridor and whistled two short, high notes, and a longer one. A few second later, a red-headed runner popped out of a nearby hallway and skidded to a halt in front of them. “Good afternoon, m’lord. Good afternoon, Miss!” said Brambur.

“Hello,” Eilífr said. “My lord,” she said, “I do know the way back to my rooms.”

He ignored her. “Hello, lad.” Balin handed Brambur the pastries then leaned over to whisper his instructions. “Understand?”

The young dwarf nodded and grinned. “Of course, my lord. The long way?”

“Show her the pretty way,” Balin said. “ _Your_ pretty way,” he amended.

“Really? Come on, Miss!”

She gave both of them an exasperated look. “Come _where_?” she asked, but followed Brambur as he trotted away.

Balin smiled after them and went back to his offices to copy out a contract and write a personal letter to a certain gentlehobbit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bombur's kids are the best supporting cast, EVER.
> 
> As usual, the new names are taken from the awesome Viking Answer Lady's page, except for Bifla, because I wanted Bombur to name his first born daughter after Bifur. 
> 
> Bombur's courses aren't following any kind of tradition I know of -- he's serving what first came to mind when I wrote this, and I really can't see dwarrows doing a palate cleaning course or any kind of salad course.


	10. A Melhekhinhaz Buzn is not a sandwich

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has commented and kudoed (definitely a legit verb) so far!
> 
> Here's some fluff, a bit of existential examination, and some jealousy. And a bit of extremely sketchy Khuzdul.
> 
> (Thanks again, Vladsgirl for finding that TImebell error in the last chapter!)
> 
>  
> 
> ___________________________

Eilífr had never been interested in exploring much of Erebor; the Library had been exciting enough for her.

But Brambur seemed to be intent on giving her a tour of the rest of the mountain, or at least what he considered the best restored parts. This included a brief and extremely loud dash through the Chamber of Timebells; an introduction to the view from the highest walkway over the Smelting Halls, which Eilífr admitted was an impressive sight; a quick pause—permitted by a guard who called the runner by name—on a high balcony overlooking the Throne Room, which they both agreed should impress anyone; and various other sights, all interspersed with a lot of back passageways featuring interesting carvings or exposed seams of sparkling rock.

He seemed to be leading her higher and higher within the mountain, until she wondered if Lord Balin had instructed the young dwarf to take her to the top peak, from the inside.  As he brought her up a sloping, rough-hewn corridor to what appeared to be an unfinished archway, she envisioned a skylight, or perhaps a ladder running up to a small hole she could poke her head through.

Brambur grinned at her and led her through the archway . . . and she stopped and stared into the immense cavern stretched out before her.

Of all the wonders of Erebor she’d read about in all those ancient tomes and scrolls, of all the tales she'd heard on the journey here, of riches and heroics, of employment and _home,_ she’d never read a single word or heard a single rumor about a _garden._

At Brambur’s urging, she moved down the wide, shallow stairs, trying to look everywhere at once.

The air was warm and the floor—no, the _ground_ —beneath her boots was soft earth. There were gently rolling hills around her, covered in green grasses and blooming plants and even a few trees.  She didn't know, couldn't know, all of the types of flowers , but the scents and the colors and even the buzzing that seemed to be coming from the unusually large bee excavating a nearby blossom were nearly overwhelming.

She looked up to see a dome of glass or clear crystal panels in the ceiling, letting in sunlight and noticed large mirrors set in the walls that reflected that light throughout the cavern. While trying to work out the sequence, she nearly tripped over a copper pipe with holes punched in, stretching along the ground as well. For water, she assumed, since the ground underneath looked dampish.

"Do you like it, Miss?" Brambur asked, as proud as if he'd planted everything himself.

"It's beautiful," she said, stepping carefully over the pipe to a paved path.  "What's it for?"

"For sitting in, and thinking and having a pipe," he said promptly.  "And looking.  And smelling, too.  The healers have herbs down that way and Dad has his own over there.”

If they could grow such things inside a mountain, why were they having trouble with the fields outside of it?  She shook her head.  Maybe growing flowers was different from growing food, like the difference between writing poetry and writing airtight contracts?

"Lord Balin said you could rest here as long as you like, Miss.  It's not strictly private or anything, but it's meant to be kept quiet and nice.  Would you like to stay a bit?  Only I have to run an errand or two soon. I could come back, if you aren't sure of the way back to the Library."

"Yes, please," she said, distracted by another large bee humming near her knee.  "I'm sure I'd be lost without your help."

He beamed and handed her the napkin of leftover pastries he'd been given by Lord Balin.  "Then I'll be back at Threering, Miss.  Enjoy yourself!"

"Thank you," she murmured, watching the bee sail away. The she blinked. "Wait, _Threering?_   What am I supposed to do until—?"

But he was gone.

She wandered farther into the place and settled onto a bench in front of a very pretty stream that coursed along a curving channel lined and piled with irregular stones that made the water swirl and burble.

It was comfortable and smelled nice and despite her loss as what to do next, Eilífr let out a deep sigh, letting go of the tension she hadn't known she'd had.

A deep, gravelly voice spoke. “Mistress?” it asked in formal Khuzdul. “Art thou well?”

Startled, she looked to her right and saw a dwarf tending one of the flower beds. He was large, even kneeling, and his clothes, though of good make, were simple and streaked with soil.  His hair, a bushy mix of black and silver, was also unkempt, though in the way that indicated hard work, rather than habitual neglect.

“I am well, I thank thee,” she replied, using the same form, out of politeness. “This is a lovely place.  I know not what these . . ." She hesitated, not knowing the correct pronunciation for “flowers” in the older form.  “. . . these plants are, but everything is beautiful.”

The gardener sat back on his heels and gave her a pleased smile. “I thank thee, though the bees have earned more honor in this than I.”

As he turned his head to look at her, Eilífr noticed the ax blade in his left temple and immediately knew him.  “Lord Bifur,” she said, standing and bowing. “Forgive me for mistaking thee.”

He smile widened. “Thou didst not,” he said. “I like to care for these little flowers.”  He spoke the last word carefully, a twinkle in his eye. “Th’art Brother Balin’s salvation?”

She blushed, then told herself she’d misunderstood his use of the word. “Eilífr, daughter of Ólifr,” she said. “At your service, my lord.”

He snorted. “None of that title nonsense here,” he said. “I am only a simple dwarf practicing an ill-suited craft for an absent friend, though I sometimes wonder what he would think of a _Khazâd_ _Melhekhinhaz Buzn_."

She frowned. A dwarrow hobbit garden?

“Bilbo Baggins?” she asked.  “This is his garden?”

His face lit up. “Thou know’st of him? Oh, yes, Th’art our young Warrior Scribe’s sworn sister.  His saga of our quest is most accurate,” he added, “barring a few misspellings.”

“ _R_ _udurshakarruthûk,_ ” she said, lapsing into modern speech, which she remembered he could understand. “I keep telling him _singular takes none, plural takes one_ , but he never listens.”

Bifur laughed—a rough sound, but no less happy for that.  It reminded her that he was related to Bombur—and to Brambur as well, which explained the runner's familiarity with the garden.

“What brings thee to this place today?" he asked. "Most dwarrow do not bother overmuch with the jewels of nature.”

“Lord Balin suggested it.  I toiled late yesterday at work to which _I_ am ill-suited, and he granted me unexpected freedom until the morrow. Your young cousin, Brambur, brought me here to while away the time.”

He nodded and his kind gaze went to her bead.  His expression sobered a bit, but  he only said, “I should be pleased indeed with thy company and conversation, should thou wish to grant them to this old dwarf.  Thy pronunciation of the old speech is quite good,” he added.

“Th’art too forgiving,” she said, grinning at him.  “I’ve only a few formal phrases by heart, and have only read the rest from older texts.  I would be grateful if thou wouldst correct my foolish attempts.”

“Not foolish,” he said, going back to the flowerbed. “The effort counts for much.”  He plucked a rust-colored  blossom and handed it to her.

Then he snapped off another and popped it into his mouth.

She considered her own flower, then pulled off a petal and chewed it thoughtfully. She would have thought something that colorful would be sweet, but this was pleasantly spicy—and not unfamiliar.  She tried another petal.  “Does Dori know about these?” she asked.

He nodded. “He employs them in his craft,” he said.  “Very soothing. Good for headache.”  He tapped the axe blade without embarrassment and went back to whatever he was doing around the base of the nearest plant.

She thought of what she’d been told of this impressive Broadbeam hunter turned wounded warrior, turned toymaker, turned noble. Turned gardener, apparently, though a dwarf of his accomplishments had certainly earned the right to do as he wished, if it brought him a measure of peace. 

If her father had found—had _wanted_ —such peace, perhaps things would be different.

Then again, if he had, maybe she wouldn’t have known Ori and Dori and Nori, which was unthinkable. Though she probably would have known Ori, because they would have been apprenticed together anyway, but only as acquaintances, because Dori wouldn’t have needed to look after her and Nori wouldn’t have taken notice of her.

And without them, she might not have come to Erebor at all, unless her father had wanted to—and if they had, she would never have met Lord Balin . . .

And that, too, was unthinkable. And she wished she could stop thinking about how unthinkable it was.

She sighed again and began to undo the knot in the napkin.

Lord Bifur raised a bushy eyebrow.

“Memories that will never come to pass,” she explained. “Would you—wouldst thou, I mean—meanest . . . um. Care for a scone?”

 

###

 

 Balin entered the  _Melhekhinhaz Buzn_ and took the center path to the stream, taking in the peaceful scene and wondering if his assistant was still there.

He’d told Brambur that he would escort Eilífr back from the garden at Threering, but his meeting with Gloin had run long, as meetings with Gloin tended to do.

But at least his cousin hadn’t rejected the idea of asking the hobbits for help—and he was as thrilled with the idea of seeing Bilbo again as he was gleeful about keeping the Burglar’s visit a secret from Thorin. Even the treaty was to be kept secret, until the delegation arrived from the Shire.

That had been Kíli’s idea, but everyone thought it was a good one. Balin had added the request to his personal letter to Bilbo, which had been sent out directly after his meeting, and had no worries that their friend wouldn't agree to the surprise.

Several months of recovery—from the Battle, from the goldsickness, from worry about Fíli and Kíli—had reconnected and cemented the friendship between King and Burglar.  Balin was almost certain their relationship was platonic, but it was no secret that Thorin had been disappointed when Bilbo had decided to return to the Shire and also no secret that Bilbo had been reluctant to do so—he’d wanted to be useful, and would not believe that his mere presence was enough.

They had sustained a regular correspondence ever since, and Thorin’s mood always lifted after the arrival of a raven from Bag End. He generally read them in the garden, which had become something of a refuge for all the Company, though it was considered a public place.

Balin reached the bench next to the burbling waters, but there was no sign of Eilífr. He decided to take the circling path and then check with Ori. There was nothing untoward in making sure she had returned to the Library safe and sound; her visit to the garden had been his idea and he was certain Brambur hadn’t taken her the direct way.

The sound of laughter led him around a small hill to two dwarrows pulling weeds around a row of flowering bushes. One of them was Bifur; perhaps he knew if she’d left.

Both sat up as he approached and to his surprise, the second gardener was Eilífr.

“Shieldbrother!” Bifur said, getting to his feet, a pleased expression on his battered face.

“Shieldbrother,” Balin said, returning the bigger dwarf’s embrace. “It is good to see you. And you,” he said, turning to Eilífr. “ But I thought I told you to rest and relax?”

She was on her feet, brushing off her hands and the front of her tunic. “Lord Bifur allowed me to assist him,” she said, in  old Khuzdul. “Sitting around with nothing to do is _not_ relaxing,” she added, in regular speech.

“What didst I say about titles between friends, _milady_?” Bifur said.

Her cheeks went pink and something in Balin growled.

He ignored it. “If you’re ready for a break from your relaxation, I brought a picnic,” he said, lifting the bundle.

Eilífr went pinker. “You don’t have to feed me, my lord,” she said. “It’s my day off.”

“I have to feed myself, lass, and I like it here. You’re welcome to join me. Both of you,” he added, with as pleasant a smile as he could muster.

Bifur chuckled. “Nay,” he said. “I thank thee, but I made a promise to Bombur that I’d fetch Bofur to sup with the family this night. If I spoil my appetite, it would disgrace the name of Ur.” He turned to Eilífr, took her hand, and bowed over it, touching the back of her fingers to his forehead. “Thank thee for the gift of your time and wit.”

“And bad verb conjugations?” she said, her cheeks glowing.

“And questionable pronunciations,” he said, grinning down at her.

"I thank thee for a most pleasant afternoon," she said.

This time, Balin couldn't pretend the growling was his stomach.

Bifur was an accomplished dwarf with a courtier’s grace, despite his berserker’s appearance. Balin knew of several dwarrowdams who did not count the axe or his vegetarianism against his attractions. In fact, Eilífr could scarcely do better and if she wanted the older dwarf, he’d dance at their wedding.

 _After_ he challenged his friend on the dueling grounds and did his best to beat the grace out of him and the jealousy out of himself.

Bifur clapped Balin on the back, gave him a knowing look that made him feel relieved and guilty at the same time, and walked off, whistling the tune to one of Bofur’s favorite suggestive drinking songs.

About a picnic and a courting couple.

Balin was going to have to challenge him after all.

After the picnic.

“I should wash my hands,” she said, looking at her fingers.

“Use the stream,” he said. “We can sit on the bench and eat.”

They walked back to the path. “This reminds me of what I saw of the Shire, on the way from Ered Luin,” she said. “It’s so very . . . _green._ Was it difficult to do?”

“Yes and no,” Balin said. “We consulted with many in Dale and even with the elves—Thranduil’s heir was most helpful, once he knew it was for Bilbo, and Lord Elrond sent some of the seeds and saplings. We’re good at working metals and gems and even smelting glass, but the rest of it was a bit beyond our ken.”

“Lord Bifur seems to know what he’s doing,” she said.

“He would be the first to claim trial and error,” he said, “but he likes plants and he is very fond of Bilbo, so he persevered.”

“What is he like?” she asked, helping him to spread the food between them on the bench.

“You spent the afternoon with him,” Balin said lightly, trying to find something that would tempt his suddenly non-existent appetite.

“Not Lord Bifur,” she said, handing him a sandwich of cheese and Dale bacon. “I mean Bilbo Baggins.”

“Oh.” Balin chewed thoughtfully and swallowed. “Sensible, practical, and loyal. Fierce, when needs must, and as stubborn as we are. He saved us all.”

“From Azog and his army,” she said. “And trolls?”

“From ourselves,” he said, remembering those dark days. “We owe him a debt, though he refuses to believe it.”

They’d all done their best to redeem themselves for the terrible wrongs they’d done him right before the Battle. Not only had the banishment been lifted, but any dwarrow who had demanded an accounting for the theft of the Arkenstone received such a thorough one from His Majesty himself—surrounded by his Company—that soon no one within rumors reach of the Lonely Mountain held any doubts about the rightful place of Bilbo Baggins among the heroes of Erebor.

But still, it didn’t seem enough. It would never seem like enough.

“Lord Bifur said the King had ordered this garden built to tempt Master Baggins to stay,” she said. “Pardon me for asking, but was it—”

“A courting gift?” He shook his head. “I don’t believe so. They are the best of friends, but hobbits do not appear to have Ones and Thorin has been so relentlessly craft-wed all his life that any marriage, even for the sake of the succession has been impossible to arrange. Thank Mahal for Dis and her efforts in providing heirs of the Durin line—such as they are,” he added, just to see her smile.

“Bifur is partially right, though,” he said, gesturing with his sandwich. “All this was meant as an apology and an acknowledgement of Bilbo’s contribution to the reclamation. It isn’t enough, of course, but hobbits have little use for gold and jewels. And now, we need to take advantage of his kindness and generosity again. I’d feel guilty about that, if our need wasn’t so urgent.”

“My lord,” Eilífr said, “If such plants can be grown inside . . .”

“Why can’t we try the same methods outside?” He shook his head. “The irrigation pipes will work, but the soil is different—we brought this in from the other side of Laketown, where the earth is rich. Our fields don’t seem to want to grow what we need it to. Fertilizer has little effect in the quantities we can purchase—were you here for the experiments with the fewmets?”

“I heard about them,” she said, wincing. “Nori though it was hilarious.”

“Oh, it was, lass” he said, chuckling. “Unless you were within range of the blast. We had to keep Kíli from stealing the tomatoes for the ends of his arrows. Far too unstable.”

Eilífr snickered. “I’ve never met His Highness, but that sounds just like him.”

“Oh, he comes by it honestly,” Balin said. “Thorin wanted to gift a basketful of them to Thranduil.”

He was rewarded by the same laughter she’d given Bifur, and he couldn’t suppress a victorious smile.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My headcanon thinks Bifur is as paternal as Dori is maternal. The rest of me thinks William Kircher is a looker. The combination seems to work?
> 
> There's a fantastic story in Ao3 somewhere that has Bifur speaking in a courtly, formal tongue, and I ran with the idea -- stumbled a few times, too, but can we pretend any bloopers are the fault of my Shakespeare compendium, from which I swiped most of the syntax? Thank you!
> 
> Comments would be lovely, if you have the time . . .


	11. In Which A Bicarbonate Mine Would Be Very Useful

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your ongoing support, in kudos and comments, of this story!
> 
> I think I may have gone a bit Monty Python-ish near the end, but when you put a lot of dwarrow into one room . . . things happen they way they want to. Apparently.
> 
> Oddly enough, it seems to work the same way when Dwalin and a Ri brother are in a room . . . 
> 
> _______________________

The ring of the Timebells were muffled by the distance between them and the garden, and far too easy to ignore, but after good food, better conversation, and a leisurely stroll along the winding paths, Eilífr was forced to reminded Lord Balin that he had a late meeting with Their Majesties King Thorin and King Svellr.

He heaved a sigh and kindly took the time to show her a direct way to the more familiar levels of the mountain. His smile was warm as he thanked her for her company, before heading back to the Eastern Quarter.

She watched him stride down the corridor, then went back to the Library.

After tidying her hair, which had apparently tired itself out, and trying and failing to take a nap, because her brain hadn’t, she decided to see if Ori was in his office.

He was. But he wasn’t alone; Dwalin was there, too, sitting in the guest’s chair.

So was Ori.

They weren’t talking.

“Sorry!” she said, backing away. “I didn’t know—I mean, sorry!”

Dwalin lifted his head before she could disappear. “Hello, lass.”

“Captain. I mean, Dwalin,” she corrected, at his look.

“Eilíe!” Ori smiled a dreamy smile, more pleased than embarrassed. “You’re back early—it’s not even Fivering.”

“Um . . . Lord Balin gave me a free afternoon,” she said, embarrassed enough for both of them. “Because I worked so late last night. But you’re busy, so I’ll—“

“How did the dinner go?” Dwalin asked, easily, setting Ori on his feet again. “Nori told me about it.”

“Dinner?” Ori asked. “With Balin? And you didn’t tell me?”

“With one of the Ironfists,” Dwalin said.

“Lord Brýni,” Eilífr said. “It was rather sudden.”

Or gave her a disapproving look. “You had dinner with an _Ironfist_?”

“He asked me,” she said. “Oh, not like that. He tried to use Bombur’s food to bribe me into telling him what I knew about the treaty. And also how best to court Lord Balin.”

“That would do it,” Dwalin said.

“Lord Balin made sure I ate beforehand,” she said, defensively.

Ori stopped glaring. “He did?”

“Of course he did,” she said. “I should really apologize to Bombur---I couldn’t do his dishes justice.”

“I’m sure he understands,” Ori said.

“What did you tell him?” Dwalin asked. “Brýni,” he added.

“What Lord Balin told me to,” she said. “That was the easy part. Sort of. It was the personal questions that were difficult.”

The big dwarf grinned. “About my brother? What did he ask?”

She shook her head. “Not about Lord Balin---about me. He asked about my bead and that led to my mother and _that_ led to . . .” She swallowed. “He knows I’m a Stonefoot and he doesn’t seem to care,” she said, reliving some of her shock. How could that _be_?

After all these years, all her father’s raging paranoia, and the first Ironfist who’d ever found out what she was didn’t _care_?

She hadn’t mentioned any of this to Lord Balin; there was no excuse for dumping even more of her history on him. Bad enough that she’d bragged about her mother—in front of the son of Gísla, no less—and showed off her own poor work . . .

“Why should he—ow, what?” Dwalin said, as Ori tromped on his foot, hard, twice, on his way to Eilífr.

“Are you okay?” he asked, reaching out to hold her shoulders in a comforting grasp.

“I’m fine. Really. Lord Brýni was polite enough, in his own way. All he cared about was the craftsmanship of the bead.” But she hugged him anyway.

“Did he take the bait, do you think?” Dwalin asked.

“I think so? But we won’t know for sure until the Ironfists ask for more—and that won’t happen until the bring up the information I gave them and they find out I haven’t lied.” She exhaled. “I hope they give us more time to prepare next time.”

“I should talk to Nori,” Dwalin said.

“Yes,” Ori said, archly. “You do that.”

Dwalin swatted him on the rump as he stood up.

“I really didn’t mean to interrupt,” Eilífr said.

“It’s a good thing you did,” Dwalin said. “I’d been trying to leave for the past quarter ring.”

“And that’s _my_ fault, I suppose?” Ori went around his desk and dropped into his chair. “Don’t let me keep you any longer, then. Shoo.”

“Shoo,” Dwalin muttered under his breath, but he picked up his axes and left, winking at Eilífr as he went.

“So,” Eilífr said. “Are you . . . is he . . .?” She knew how Ori felt about Dwalin; she hoped Dwalin felt the same way.

“We are,” he said, finally looking shy about it. “There are a few unexpected . . . facets to the relationship, but things are progressing nicely. But what about you? It’s not like you to take a whole afternoon off and _not_ spend it here with your precious Second Age contracts. Játvígr has been eying those, you know.”

She bristled. “If you _dare_ let him touch so much as a corner,I’ll tell Dori you’re looking peaky again.”

He winced. “I told him they were yours,” he said quickly. “Luckily, we found another set of maps. Only Third Age, but they may help with some of the property disputes around the northern slope.”

She sighed. “I miss it here.”

“No you don’t,” he said. “Not really.”

“No,” she said. “But it’s only been . . .” Had it really only been a few days?

“Sit down and tell me everything,” Ori said.

“Tell _you_ everything?” Eilífr raised an eyebrow. “While sitting in _that_ chair?”

“Nothing’s happened in that chair you need to worry about,” he said primly. “The door was open, you know.”

“I do know,” she said, sitting down. “I went to the garden today.”

“Bilbo’s garden?”

“Lord Balin sent me there. He thought I needed some rest.”

“You do,” he said. “Did you like it?”

“I think so, though I’m not much for sitting around looking at things.”

Ori snorted. “Eilífr, you _live_ for—”

“That’s different and you know it,” she said. “Luckily, I met Lord Bifur, and he let me help with the plants, or try to. He was very patient about it.”

“Bifur?” Ori squinted at her. “What do you think of him?

“I like him very much,” she said.

Ori frowned. “Why?”

“Why? ” She frowned back at him. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”

“No, but—“

“You couldn’t possibly think I’d dislike someone just because he speaks a little differently?”

“Of course not—“

“Especially someone who might be able to help me understand some of the archaic terminology in the older contracts—and how to pronounce it, too? I’m surprised at you, Ori—in fact, I’m surprised you haven’t asked him to help!”

“I _have_ ,” he said. “And he _does,_ but he’s been involved with the garden, lately. And of _course_ I didn’t think you would snub him! I just wondered . . . how _much_ you liked him. That’s all.”

It clearly wasn’t, but she answered the question. “I’ve only just met him,” she said. “But he’s . . . He’s sort of like a fatherly Dori.”

Ori blinked. “You’re right,” he said, grinning. “But not as smothering.”

“True,” Eilífr said, though she’d never minded Dori’s fuss, except when it came to clothes. “If my father had . . . well. No use in what-iffing what’s past, as Nori says.” He said it mostly to annoy Dori, but it was true all the same.

Ori reached over and patted her hand. “I’m glad you like Bifur. He’s a good friend to have.”

“And he agrees with me about your spelling problems, too.”

“He---what? I don’t have a spelling problem.”

“You can ask him when you see him. He doesn’t look anything like Bombur, does he? But there’s still some kind of family . . . not a resemblance, exactly, but they have the same . . . They’re so . . . ”

Ori nodded. “I know what you mean. All of the Ur family are like that. Have you met Bofur?”

“No,” she said. “Master Bofur is Bombur’s brother? I doubt I will, unless he comes to see Lord Balin.”

“Bofur has Bombur’s temperament and Bifur’s looks and charm.”

“Oh. My.” Eilífr shook her head. “Hard to imagine.”

“Balin had better keep a close eye if Bofur does come to visit.”

“Why?”

“He’s quite the dwarrowdam’s dwarf. And Balin wouldn’t like it if you were stolen right from under his nose.”

Eilífr snorted. “ _Stolen_. I honor my contracts, you know that.”

“And you wouldn’t leave anyway.”

“No, I wouldn’t. I don’t know much about mining.”

“And you care for Balin.”

“Of course,” she said ,as lightly as she could. “That’s my job.”

“Yes, but you care about him as well. Don’t you?”

She opened her mouth, closed it, then shook her head. “Ori. I can’t. You know that.”

“ _You_ know that. I don’t. No one does, but you.”

“It’s not possible,” she said. “And I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Eilíe—“

“Ori. Even if he could ever . . . aside from his riches and his title and his position, he’s of the line of Durin, Ori. You know what that means. And you know what I promised.”

“Your father was a—“

“My father was a mean, angry drunk who couldn’t see past his own disappointments and grief long enough to see what he _hadn’t_ lost. I _know_!” She took a deep breath and ignored the hot prickling of her eyes. “But that doesn’t mean he was wrong about my responsibilities.”

“I just want you to be happy,” he said. “You deserve to be happy.”

“Or maybe,” she said, “I deserve to be happy with what I have. It’s more than my father ever managed.”

 

###

 

It was well after Eightring when the King of the Red Mountains took his regal leave of the meeting chamber, taking his jewel-bedecked advisors with him and therefore considerably lowering the light levels in the room.

Balin gathered up his papers and aligned them against the surface of the table with a little more force than necessary, then dropped them into a careless pile once the stone doors shut. “Bard once told me,” he said, “that even the most honored guests are like fish—they start reeking after a fortnight.”

“I bow to the obvious wisdom of the King of Dale.” Thorin II, called Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain, allowed himself to slump in his chair, an elbow on his armrest and his regal head propped up on a hand. “How long have _these_ pompous fools been here and how much longer before they’ll sign the damned treaties so we can all get on with our lives?”

“Pompous they may be, but fools they are not—not all of them,” Balin said. “That’s part of the problem. But that compromise they so graciously granted to us and we so eagerly accepted? _We_ gave them that idea. And now that they know our informant speaks the truth, we might be able to get them where we want them.”

“As long as we all agree that we want them back in Orocarni, I fully support any and all subterfuge,” Thorin said. “Who’s this informant? One of Nori’s people?”

“My assistant.”

Thorin’s eyebrows rose. “When did that happen?”

“Earlier this week. She had dinner with Brýni last night and allowed him to pry that bit of selective information out of her.”

“You don’t seem pleased.”

“I’m pleased with the results.” Balin exhaled. “But now she’ll have to meet with him again. That, I do not like.”

“Which is Brýni?”

“The sharp one wearing puce robes and a seam’s worth of mauve rhodolite.”

Thorin snorted. “Is he the one who will be asking me for your hand in marriage?”

Balin closed his eyes. “You had better hope that Kíli is prepared to step in as Crown Prince,” he said, “because I will be removing his gossiping brother from the succession as soon as I can lay hands on him.”

Thorin snorted again. “Fíli didn’t have to tell me anything. The dwarf may be sharp, but he isn’t subtle. I take it you want me to refuse the suit?”

“You take it right. I have no interest in being courted. When the time comes, I will be doing the courting, thank you.”

“Is the time coming soon, cousin?” Thorin asked, traces of his younger nephew in his all too innocent expression.

Seeing glimpses of Thorin’s mischievous younger self always gave Balin a sense of profound gratitude. The journey had been long and difficult and full of enough suffering to harden any dwarf, much less one with the burden of an entire Clan on his shoulders. But if Thorin was now able to be himself as well as the King under the Mountain, it was all worth it.

Most of the time.

“It isn’t imminent,” Balin said.

“Oh,” Thorin said. “You will let me know?”

“Possibly.”

Thorin grinned. “Tell me about this new assistant who is doing Nori’s job.”

Balin reminded himself that Thorin had every right to know. “Her name is Eilífr, daughter of Ólifr,” he said, keeping to the facts. “She came here from Ered Luin to work in the Library. Ori recommended her to me. Her research is impeccable and she’s managed to bring organization and logic to my offices already. And she’s all but officially a member of the Ri family,” he added.

Thorin’s eyebrows went up. “Sounds like quite the gem.”

“Mahal sent,” Balin said, meaning it. He put his hand in his pocket and fiddled with the quartz marble.

Thorin watched him for a moment, then nodded. “Good,” he said, one of his rare, gentle smiles appearing above his flourishing dark beard. “I wish you the best of luck, then, cousin, when the time comes.”

Thorin, Balin thought, was not as oblivious as he seemed.

 

###

 

Eilífr couldn’t believe that Lord Brýni could possibly be as oblivious as he sometimes seemed.

She’d suspected his shrewdness before and his questions during their dinner had confirmed that a many of his affected manners were calculated for his own purposes.

But she couldn’t understand what purpose he could possibly have in sweeping into the antechamber during Lord Balin’s Open Hours, in his usual glittering Ironfist fashion, completely ignoring both the half-full room and the dwarrow she was speaking to, and setting a wrapped package in the center of the Last Will and Testament she was in the middle of explaining.

“I wish to see Lord Balin,” he said.

“Do you, my lord?” she said. She reached for the appointment book.

“Not now,” he said. “I can wait until he’s finished. But I wanted to know . . .” He pulled the ribbon on the package and the wrappings fell away. “What do you think of that?”

The room, which had been filled with whispers, went silent.

“My lord,” Eilífr said, groping for an inoffensive term that meant priceless, confusing, tasteless, and ugly. “It’s . . .”

“Yes, yes,” he said. “But will he _like_ it?”

“What is it for, my lord?” she asked, trying to see past the sparkling gems to find a function.

He misunderstood. “It’s a courting gift,” he said.

Everyone in the room inhaled.

“Um,” Eilífr said, trying to keep her voice at a discreet volume, though why she was bothering, she didn’t know. “It’s a bit _elaborate_ for a first gift, my lord.”

“Is it?” He frowned.

“And perhaps a touch . . . impersonal?”

“But the gems here match his eyes,” he said, pointing.

She had to admit that they did. “Lord Balin would appreciate that, I’m sure, my lord, but it might be best if you began your suit in a way that shows you understand and honor His Lordship’s own tastes.”

“Right,” he said. “The personal touch.” He frowned in thought and Eilífr sent a prayer to any Valar within hearing that Lord Balin would stay in his office chamber.

“You will have to help me, then,” he said.

“Any service I can provide, my lord—"

“Excellent. We will meet you at the market tomorrow morning.”

“But, I— _we_ , my lord? And why—"

“Tóki has been asking to go to the market for his little carving,” he said. “We will go with him and you will point out the things Lord Balin might like.”

Eilífr swallowed. “I am contracted to work here, my lord. I cannot arrange my schedule to suit myself.”

He spread his hands. “Then I will send him a note requesting you as a guide. Surely he can do without you for a single morning?”

“No doubt, my lord,” she said, her heart sinking. But what could she do? “If His Lordship agrees, I will meet you at the main entrance at Sevenbell.”

He wrinkled his pointed nose. “Impossible. Ninebell will do.”

“Yes, my lord,” she said, but he was already gone and his gift with him.

The room was silent a moment—but only a moment.

“Lord Balin wouldn’t wed one of them walking chandeliers!” someone stated loudly.

“’E would if it was political,” a cynical voice said.

“He never! He’s a Durin!” chorused several voices.

“Imagine Durin th’ Deathless being reborn as an Ironfist!” a voice cried.

“Imagine him not being born at all, y’mean, y’idgit—that was a dwarf, nae a dam, if I’m any judge.”

“You ain’t, much. But I sees yer point. Durins have a duty t’ the Clan, sure enough.”

There were nods all around the room.

“Are you all right, Master Eilífr?” asked the dwarf she’d been helping. “Only you’ve gone a bit pale.”

Eilífr pulled herself together and smiled. “I’ll be fine,” she said, hoping it was true. “Please everyone,” she said standing up, “do keep your voices down. You mustn’t disturb His Lordship. And his personal life is his own.”

And it always would be.

“You aren’t going to _help_ that prancing purple dandy court ‘is Lordship, are you?” someone demanded in the ensuing hush.

“’Course she won’t,” someone else said.

“She’d best look sharp, then—them Ironfists can hold a grudge.”

“And Longbeards can’t?”

“No, no, just sayin’”

“She’s in a tight spot and no mistake!”

All eyes were suddenly on her. “Well?”

Eilífr took a deep breath and let it out. She could tell them it was none of their business, but if she did that, they would make up their own minds, probably at the top of their lungs. “Not unless Lord Balin wishes me to,” she said, quietly, so they had to strain to hear. “It’s his decision to make.”

There were a few grumbles, but many more sounds of agreement and even a few of approval at her loyalty.

“I would appreciate it—and I know His Lordship would appreciate it—if you would keep this to yourselves,” she added, before sitting down.

There were a few more grumbles, a few less sounds of agreement, and a lot of sideways glances.

The dwarf she’d been helping patted her hand. “You’re clever, Miss,” he said. “I’m sure His Lordship won’t hold it against you. Lord Balin, I mean.” He frowned. “Don’t know about the other one.”

Eilífr sighed. At least she’d have more time to prepare to answer Lord Brýni’s questions—and far less chance of indigestion.

With luck, she’d even have time to devise an explanation before—

The door to the inner chamber opened and a dwarf emerged, bowed, and left. Lord Balin came out, started to say something to Eilífr, then stopped and looked at all the eyes staring at him in total silence.

“Is everything all right?” he asked.

“Yes, my lord,” she said. She looked at the schedule book. “I believe Master Frain is next.”

A voice piped up. “Not fer another twenty minutes.”

She tried to smile. “Then you may go in early.”

“I don’t mind the wait, iffen you need to go tell His Lordship somethin’ important,” he said, with all the sly affability of someone who expected to be repaid by witnessing His Lordship’s reaction.

Lord Balin gave her a concerned look. “Do you, lass?”

She looked around the room and it seemed to her that every dwarrow leaned forward a little. “It can wait until after your last appointment, my lord, she said, through her teeth. She picked up her book and flipped through it. “Unless Master Frain wishes to wait another few days to see you.” Flip. “Or perhaps a fortnight.” Flip, flip. “Or two. Master Frain?”

Master Frain visibly weighed his business interests against his interest in other people’s business. “Oh, all right, then,” he said, getting up and stomping to the doorway.

Lord Blain gave her a bewildered look and followed him.

Eilífr slammed the book down on the table. “Anyone else?” she asked sweetly.

No one answered.

“Good. Now where were we?” she asked the dwarf in front of her. “Oh, yes. Your aunt wanted her second best mattock to go to . . .”

As she tried to decipher the scrawled name, she thought that she would still have time for an explanation and a plan.

But her digestion was already a lost cause.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About those varied family titles: Let's assume that Bofur and Bombur are called "Master" because of their positions of authority and Bifur is a Lord because he doesn't have or want one—and it appeals to his sense of humor.
> 
>  Likewise, The Ri brothers are all Masters. Ori because of his position with the Library, Nori because of his spy work, and Dori . . . for reasons of his own.
> 
> But really, I like to think Thorin ennobled every member of the Company that hadn't already been, even though some of ‘em aren’t overly comfortable with it. Seems like something he'd do, bless him.
> 
> And won’t Bilbo be surprised when he finds out?


	12. Opals and Obstinancy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, sorry, SORRY for the delay in updating -- I'm afraid that's becoming an unofficial sub-theme of this story.
> 
> I have a long list of excuses, starting with Winter messing with our WiFI, and All The Viruses hitting the family this past month, and a couple of paying gigs that took precedence, and my older child having trouble at school, and the editing of my next novel, and some beta work I'd promised to do back when I had less to do, and Winter coming back to take out our power every couple of hours for two days, and ending (please, please, PLEASE) with the recent Attack of the Phlegm Porcupine on my poor, unsuspecting throat . . . yeah. So.
> 
> Here's a chapter. It has some clues in it, though a couple of characters remain clueless for reasons of plot . . . 
> 
> _____________________

After Eilífr had firmly shut the anteroom door behind the last curious dwarrow, she took as much time as she possibly could to make a fresh pot of tea and arrange mugs and a plate of the biscuits Dori had sent to her that morning, before taking her chair across from Lord Balin, who had been watching her with what must have been a considerable amount of patience.

“Is there anything you’d like to tell me, lass?” he said, mildly.

The truthful answer was "no" but Eilífr’s sense of responsibility was too strong for cowardice.  She took a deep breath. “Lord Brýni brought you a courtship gift.  When you weren’t available, he showed it to me and asked my opinion.” 

He closed his eyes. “In the middle of a roomful of dwarrow.”

“Yes, my lord.”  She felt her shoulders hunch and made a conscious effort to straighten them.  “I tried to be discreet, but Lord Brýni . . . isn’t.”

“I’m well aware.”  He pinched the bridge of his nose.  “What sort of gift was it?”

She shrugged helplessly.  “Expensive?  Sparkly?  With metal . . .” She tried to indicate its general structure with her hands.  “. . . spires?”

“Sparkly spires,” he said.

“They match your eyes.  The color, I mean” she added, as his eyebrows rose. "Not the magenta ones."

“Thank you for clarifying," he said, looking pained. "Where is it?”

“He took it with him, my lord. I . . . when I gave my opinion of its suitability as a, um, first gift, he said I should take him to the markets tomorrow morning.  He’ll send you a request,” she added.

"Please tell me I have something more important for you to do?"

“Anything would be, my lord,” she said. “But it _is_ another opportunity to pass information.  Or glean it.”  She’d learned from Lord Balin’s assessment of her dinner with the Ironfist that the things Lord Brýni wanted to know could tell them as much or more as the things he’d said outright.

“True,” he said.  “But I’m sorry you’ve been put in this position, lass.  I truly am.”

“Better me than someone important,” she said without thinking.  She glanced up and saw him looking at her with an odd expression.  “I mean, if this ends up affecting the treaty or causing some kind of diplomatic incident, you’ll need a scapegoat.  And I’m expendable so--”

“Never that,” he said, in the tone he used on those who hadn’t noticed he’d already made his decision and wasn’t planning on changing it.

Oh. She blinked and cleared her throat.  “What should I tell him, my lord?”

"Thorin and I prepared a short list after our meeting with Svellr."  He looked around. "Where did I—?”

"This?" She slid it to him.  “I found it this morning and made one or two suggestions, my lord.”

“Ah, yes.”  He scanned it.  “Any of these will do, if you can.  And if you could possibly work in something about the opal mines, please do—it would be most helpful if we could tell Mirkwood that we have another market for the stuff.”

“Yes, my lord.”  She took the sheet back and wrote a short note.  “My lord?  What should I do about your courting gift?  I mean . . .” Her cheeks heated and she felt like a complete fool.  “I mean, I don’t know anything about—and what if I get it wrong?  Or _right_?  Or—“

“It doesn’t matter, lass,” he said, chuckling.  “I won’t be accepting anything he offers, regardless of its worth. Even if Brýni were to my taste, the Ironfists will never gain a foothold in Erebor through me.  Besides,” he said, lightly, “while I’m sure to appreciate any gift you had a hand in selecting, when the time comes, I believe I will be doing my own courting.”

Her heart leapt—and she told it to be still; she wasn’t foolish enough to believe that he meant that the way it sounded.  “That’s reassuring, my lord," she said, studying the list.

“Is it?” he asked, softly.

Her head snapped up in surprise.  “Of course, my lord,” she said.  “You would never lose Erebor through legal treachery, as Orocarni was lost.  Or let the Longbeards suffer the fate of my Clan.”

“Ah,” he said, grimacing a little. “Thank you."

“My lord?” she asked.  “Did I say something wrong?”

“No,” he said. “Not at all.  My thoughts wandered off the path for a moment.” He pulled the nearest sheaf of parchments to him. “Could I have more tea, please, before you go?”

“Of course, my lord,” she said, standing.

She made him a fresh pot—with a bit less of the black tea than usual, as it was so late—and brought it to him with the last of the biscuits.   A quick glance confirmed that he was going over the final points of the revised Hvítkárr-Hird contract.

“I can stay a bit longer, if you need me to copy over the—“

“No, thank you,” he said, absently, jotting something on a separate sheet. “You'll be tramping all over the markets tomorrow; best get some rest.”

“Yes, my lord,” she said, trying to keep disappointment out of her own voice. “Good night.”

“Good night, lass.”

As she slipped away, she thought she heard him sigh.

 

###

 

It was small comfort the next morning that Lord Tóki was as pleased to see Eilífr as she was to be there.

"I thought  _we_ were going to Mistress Ǫlrún's," he said, glaring at her. As usual, he was overdressed by all but the standards of Orocarni, and was already garnering attention from the dwarrow passing through the entrance to the markets.

Lord Brýni, whose trousers were marginally more practical, if one ignored the fact that they were mint green, smiled indulgently. "We are, Tóki, but Mistress Eilífr is here to guide us and perhaps show us some interesting things along the way."

Lord Tóki sniffed, clearly doubtful.

That was fair; Eilífr had doubts of her own about the whole business. At least she'd had the idea of asking Ori to draw out a map of the marketplace to study, so she was unlikely to get them all irrevocably lost.

They made their way slowly towards the area claimed by the Toymaker's Guild, stopping every ten steps or so, as one of them, usually Lord Tóki, glimpsed something interesting and disappeared into a shop or under an awning.

Lord Brýni didn't seem to mind, and took the opportunities to ask questions of Eilífr on a range of topics. She was able to touch on one or two things on Lord Balin's list, and steer the Ironfist away from purchasing gifts that were embarrassingly ostentatious.

Which wasn't to say that he didn't buy an amazing variety of expensive things that Lord Balin would have been hard pressed to accept even if he'd been forge over anvil for his would-be suitor.

"Books, my lord" she said, finally, unable to keep quiet for one more terrible choice. "Books or a good pipe or fine tobacco. A swordbelt. Something _useful._  My lord," she said, as he ignored her to hold up a rustic, Man-made necklace of heavy links and rough-shaped gems that gleamed dully in the light. "Your gift should be something that your . . . that your intended will _cherish_. Lord Balin never wears jewelry."

And he would never wear something so crudely fashioned, she continued silently. Not the son of Gísla!

"I'm so glad you think so," Lord Brýni said loudly, and turned to pay the delighted jeweler.

Eilífr stared at him, dumbfounded. "My _lord_ ," she said.

"I’m not deaf," he said, dropping the package into the already bulging leather bag he'd purchased at a convenient stall.

Eilífr shook her head. The bag might have been a good gift, but its contents . . .

"Brýni! What do you think?" Lord Tóki asked, showing off an earring like a river of silver and blue stones.

"Very pretty," Lord Brýni said, kindly. "But aren't you saving your money for Mistress Ǫlrún?"

Lord Tóki sighed, set the piece down, and wandered over to pick over a trayful of rings.

Lord Brýni picked up the earring. "This as well," he told the jeweler, who smiled and bowed.

“His brothers keep him on a strict allowance,” he told Eilífr, answering a question she hadn’t asked. “Of course, if they didn’t, he’d buy all of Erebor to take home with him.”

“That’s one way to do it, my lord,” she said, distracted by all the passersby glancing into the shop. No one who had been tutored by Nori would fail to notice that eyes had been on them since they started, or that the same eyes were watching closely every time they stopped. She'd assumed Nori's people and their Ironfist counterparts would be invisible escorts, but there seemed to be more dwarrow around than that would account for. Surely Ironfists weren’t that much of a curiosity?

Lord Brýni’s surprised laugh startled her out of her concern. “Yes,” he said, his grin appearing natural and genuine. “But the less said about that, the better, I think.”

Across the room, Lord Tóki scowled at her.

As they left, Eilífr tried again. "My lord, forgive me, but that necklace would never suit Lord Balin."

"I'm counting on that," he said, with an amused smile.

“I’m sorry?” she said.

"I didn't buy it to impress his lordship,” he said quietly, “I bought it to impress all the dwarrow who are following us—or rather, _you—_ to see what their masters should give his lordship."

Eilífr stopped. "What?"

"You didn't notice?"

"Yes, but . . . I thought . . ." Other suitors? Spies and gossips, yes, but . . .

“I expect everyone within a night’s ravensflight of Erebor knows that Lord Balin Fundinson is being courted by a foreign dwarf lord who has an in with his lordship’s assistant. Rather impressive turnout, I must say, considering the early start. Now, where is that book stall you mentioned?"

Wordlessly, she led him to it and pointed out a few tomes Lord Balin had borrowed most frequently from the Library.

“A book of love poems, do you think? Does he read Sindarin?” he said loudly. “No, perhaps not.” He set it down and selected a few unusual colors of ink and an array of new pens. And instead of carrying his purchases, or handing them to her, he told the shopkeeper to deliver them to the Ironfist guest quarters.

She wasn’t sure what complicated game Lord Brýni was playing, but he seemed to be playing it well. He was also friendlier this morning, less arrogant and more open, and while she was half certain it was a manipulation of some kind, she couldn’t help responding to it, just a bit.

By the time they left the stall, Lord Tóki was demanding to see Mistress Ǫlrún _at once,_ and refused to be soothed by Lord Brýni’s reassurances.

Luckily, the area belonging to the Toymaker’s Guild was nearby and the right shop was quickly located.

It was full of carved toys of all sizes, some beautiful , others clearly made ugly on purpose, some articulated with clever joints, some painted in pretty colors or coated in wax to make them waterproof.

“Oh!” Tóki said, staring around like a dwarf half his age. “Oh, _look!_ ”

“We’ll never get him out of here,” Lord Brýni said, shaking his head in fond amusement, while Eilífr considered the idea that his change in attitude might have something to do with the gorgeous young Ironfist.

Mistress Ǫlrún appeared, welcoming them with a wide grin and a small wooden Warg that Lord Tóki loved on sight.

“He’s perfect!” he said, holding it in his palm. “No, no: _she’s_ perfect!”

Ǫlrún patted his hand. “Thank you, lad. I suspected about halfway through that she wanted to be a lady. You have the eye, you know.”

“I do?”

“Of course you do,” Lord Brýni said, smiling. “For some things.”

Lord Tóki blinked, and his smile went uncertain, until Ǫlrún led him to a selection of Orcs that might be convinced to sit astride his new acquisition.

Eilífr wondered if Lord Brýni was truly oblivious about how the younger dwarf felt about him—or, she suspected, vice versa. “Have you and Lord Tóki known each other long?”  

“Hmmm? Yes, we grew up together. Well,” he added, as Tóki’s delighted giggles echoed around the room, “one of us did. He’s not interested in academia or politics. Or anything of much practical import.” He didn’t sound as if he minded much. “Are you ready, Tóki?”

“No,” Lord Tóki said. “Couldn’t we stay just a few minutes more?”

“I’m afraid not. I have a meeting before lunch.”

Lord Tóki sighed. “All right.” He paid for his purchases carefully. “Thank you, Mistress Ǫlrún.”

“Thank you, my lad. You’re welcome any time, with or without company—here,” she said, handing him a small piece of wood and a tiny knife. “See if you can free what you see. Then come back and show me.”

“Thank you!” His smile was a thing of utter beauty as they left—until Lord Brýni said, “Tóki, let Mistress Eilífr walk beside me until we reach the Gates.”

The smile was replaced by a scowl that rivaled the one on his new Warg’s carved rider. “Why?”

“Because I want to ask her about the potential gem markets. You’ll be bored within five steps.”

“On the contrary,” Eilífr said. “I believe Lord Tóki’s opinion would be far more useful than mine.”

The lord in question stared at her. “ _My_ opinion?”

“Of course,” she said, widening her eyes. “I imagine that what you don’t know about the styles and fashions of Orocarni isn’t worth knowing. Are opals prized there, my lord?”

“Opals?” He glared at her, as if she was trying to trick him. “I don’t know what those are.”

“Neither do I,” Lord Brýni said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Perhaps we call them by another name. What do they look like?”

“I’ll show you,” she said, and headed for the Jeweler’s area, not waiting for them to follow.

She entered the first large shop she came to. It was a pretty place, with displays of ready-made jewelry as well as bowls and baskets of loose stones of all kinds and colors, and she hoped it would have what she wanted.

"Mistress!" a familiar voice said. "Are you here to see how you and His Lordship have helped me?" It was the jewel merchant from the Open Hours, beaming at her as he came around the counter, his braided beard gleaming.  
  
"Hello!" she said. "Is this your new shop?”

"Yes, indeed, or will be soon, see!" he said, his smile putting his brilliant beads to shame. "There is still some work to be done, of course, but not where customers will notice," he said. "Are you here to make that bargain I promised you?"

"Not yet," she said, "but Lord Tóki would like to see what opals you might have."

Lord Tóki, who had been contemplating the jeweler's fine beard, blinked in confusion. "I--"

"Opals? A fine choice, my lord!" The jeweler said. "One moment." He disappeared behind a curtain and came back with several boxes and a fine black cloth, which he spread on the countertop. "I keep these for discerning customers, only, see," he said, and began scattering milk-white stars across the cloth, each lit from within with a different color of fire.

"Oh!" Tóki breathed. "I've seen these--Princess Geirhildr has three in her winter crown. She said they're very rare."

"They are, my lord," the jeweler said, "and never to be found within the Red Mountains; the rock there cannot grow them. But the Lonely Mountain has always had a bit of dragonfire in it, see?" He picked up a large stone and moved it slightly, so the lights glowed in turn.

"I don't suppose Erebor is looking for a market for these," Lord Brýni said, raising a sardonic eyebrow.

"The elves in Mirkwood adore them," Eilífr said. "But if there's a choice between trading with King Thranduil and forging a bond between our two nations . . ." She shrugged. “I’m sure we could come to some accommodation?”

"Does Lord Balin appreciate exactly what he has in you, Mistress?" he murmured.

"I'm sure I couldn't say, my lord," she said. “He did send me away this morning to do the shopping.”

He coughed.

A short while later, Lord Tóki was wearing large opal pendant that he was certain would turn the daughter of his sovereign king as green as Lord Brýni’s trousers. Lord Brýni was visibly resigned to opening negotiations for trading expensive items he hadn’t known existed. And if Eilífr was feeling rather pleased with herself, the jewel merchant was clearly ecstatic at his great fortune in being one of the few contracted purveyors of what was sure to become the Ironfists’ new favorite stone.

“Thank you for your patronage, my lords,” he said, visions of a lucrative future dancing in his bright eyes. “Please come back soon! No finer opals may be found than in my humble shop! I must thank you again, Mistress!” he said to Eilífr. “You are the bringer of luck and all things kind, see? A token,” he added, pressing something wrapped in soft paper into her hand and refusing to take it back. “Luck for luck!”

She held it awkwardly and bowed, deciding to ask Lord Balin if gifts of gratitude counted as a bribe. “Thank you.”

He bowed as they left. “Kampi, son of Kambi, will be always at service to you and yours!”

The Ironfists were already outside, but she paused in the doorway to return the gesture. “Eilífr, daughter of Ólifr at your service as well.”

As she stepped outside, Tóki was watching his new accessory change colors as he moved, a pleased smile on his face. But Lord Brýni was watching Eilífr, and his expression was not one she could interpret.

“My lord?” she asked. When he didn’t move she tried again. “You have a meeting, my lord?”

“Meeting? Oh, yes.” He smiled faintly. “I believe we’ll have one or two more things to discuss than expected.”

The walk back to the Gates was a quiet one, and brisk. Lord Brýni seemed preoccupied and Lord Tóki had never bothered to pay much attention to Eilífr, anyway.

She didn’t mind, as such; it had been a very long morning and she was beginning to notice that breakfast had been several hours ago.

Once they arrived at the Gates, the Ironfists quickly took their leave, Lord Brýni with his usual dismissive wave and Lord Tóki with perhaps less of a supercilious glower than usual.

Eilífr made her tired way to Lord Balin’s offices to report, but decided to visit Bombur’s kitchen first for something to eat.

She had a feeling she was going to need the fortification.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ______________________
> 
> I'm THISCLOSE to begging all my throwaway characters to stop wandering back on set and becoming real people and *naming themselves* (I'm looking at you, Kampi, with your distinctive accent and useful opals and tokens of luck that I haven't forgotten, I promise). 
> 
> I swear, there will be more canon characters in the next chapter, if I have to write it mysel--wait. Shoot.
> 
> Comments repel Phlegm Porcupine attacks, by the way. Know fact. Just saying. :)


	13. Of Planning and Plot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all again for your encouragement and feedback!
> 
> My projects are clearing up and the viruses are finally backing off (or freezing to death with the rest of us), so there should be less time between updates, at least until I start a new gig at the end of March.
> 
> This is sort of a bridging chapter to prepare for a time jump, so there's more plot wrangling than romance, but I did manage to get our Eilifr to meet two more of the company, so there's that . . .  
> _______________________

Balin’s morning was spent with Gloin, working on what the company, save their leader, was calling “Bilbo’s Treaty”.

It would be a miracle if they could keep it from Thorin for very long, but they hoped he would be distracted by the Ironfists long enough to convince their preferred representative from the Shire to pay a surprise visit.

And if Balin often had to drag his attention back to outlining incentives that might appeal to hobbits, instead of wondering how a certain dwarrowdam was faring, Erebor’s Treasurer didn’t seem to notice.

“That’s as much as we can do for now,” Gloin finally said. “When will we have a reply from Bilbo, do you think?”

“The raven should be arriving in the Shire tomorrow, barring bad weather,” Balin said. “But Bilbo might take a few days to reply.”

“He’ll agree to help, if he can,” Gloin said, scowling as if Balin had said otherwise. “Of that there’s no doubt.”

“None at all,” Balin said. “It’s convincing other Hobbits to agree that might prove difficult.”

Gloin grunted. “Aye.”

“I’m fairly certain he’ll at least agree to a visit. The journey should take two months or so, if he travels along the established routes.”

“You never know with Bilbo.”

Balin smiled. “True enough. Never one to go around when he could fall through, Mahal preserve him.”

“So,” Gloin said, shutting his ledger. “Where is this assistant of yours who keeps asking all those sharp questions about markets and math? Ori told me she’s the one who wanted to keep a copy of the budgets in the Library. Good notion, that.”

“Eilífr is spending the morning in the marketplace,” Balin said, shuffling the initial contracts, which were at this point half blank spaces, into proper order.

“Too bad,” Gloin said, a note of disappointment in his voice. “Investigating a contract dispute, is she?”

“Buying a courtship gift,” Balin said absently, then winced.

A broad grin spread over the other dwarf’s face. “ _Is_ she?”

“Gloin—”

“Should we start planning the wedding now?”

“No.”

“I dare say Bilbo would be interesting in seeing a real dwarf—“

Balin slapped the contracts onto the table. “ _No_.”

“ _No_?” Gloin’s eyebrows rose to his hairline. “You aren’t going to drag this out are you? I know you’re a cautious fellow but you aren’t getting any younger. I knew the moment I met my Fríða that she was my—”

“ _Gloin_. It’s not what you think.”

“Then she isn’t shopping for you? But I could have sworn Bifur said—”

Balin rubbed his eyes. “The gift is for me, but they aren’t _from_ her. She’s helping Lord Brýni.”

“ _Wha-at_?” Even Gloin’s beard seemed to bristle. “That _Ironfist_? What kind of loyalty is this?”

Balin held up a hand. “The exemplary kind,” he said, and explained.

“Oh,” Gloin said, subsiding. “I suppose that’s all right then.”

“Not entirely,” Balin said. “But Eilífr is very good at gathering information and planting ours in return. And before you ask, I will _not_ be accepting Brýni’s suit.”

“No. No, of course not.” Gloin brightened. “And perhaps she’ll buy something on her own behalf along the way, hmmm?”

“Gloin,” Balin said, sighing. “She’s in my employ. I’ve known her for four days.”

“What’s a contract compared to finding your other half? It doesn’t take more than a glance to recognize your One. The moment I saw my Fríða—”

“Yes,” Balin said drily. “But Fríða made you wait five years before _she_ was certain. And they were very long years, for all of us; Dwalin swears Oin went deaf out of self-defense.”

“Well . . . I suppose Mahal did give us dwarrow the romantic natures and made the dams more practical, just to balance things out a bit. Still, Bifur seems to think your lass is—”

“Bifur thinks his lass is what?” Nori asked, in Gloin’s ear.

Gloin jumped in his seat. Balin, who had hoped the Spymaster would drop by, if only because his presence would mean that Eilífr was safely back in the mountain, did not. “Bifur thinks she has the makings of a gardener,” he said, lightly, not particularly wanting to hear Bifur’s opinion on the subject of his assistant. “She helped him the other day in the _Melhekhinhaz Buzn_.”

“Is that so,” Nori said, giving Gloin a suspicious look.

Gloin shrugged. “True enough,” he said. “Among other things,” he added under his breath.

Balin cleared his throat. “You have something to report?”

“And something to ask,” Nori said, slumping gracefully into a chair. “Once the little scribe is finished eating.”

“She’s back, then?” And having another meal with Brýni, no doubt, one that would last until dinner. Much more of this and she’d run back to the Library and he’d have to arrange his own schedule, find his own misplaced things, and drown lonely and alone in a sea of paperwork.

Nori nodded. “She’s having a bite with Bofur.”

“Bofur?”

“Bifla introduced them. They seemed to be enjoying each other’s company.”

Bofur was a good dwarf and stalwart friend and Balin briefly wished him and his rakish hat and charming ways to the deepest mines in the mountain.

From his smirk, Nori knew it. “She’ll be along,” he said, slumping gracefully in a chair. “She held up well this morning, all told.”

“Good,” Balin said. “No problems?”

Nori didn’t say anything for a moment. “Depends on what you might find problematic,” he said.

Gloin snorted.

Before Balin could ask a question that had a chance of earning a straight answer, a knock came at the door. It opened a little and Eilífr poked her head inside. “My lord? Am I interrupting?”

“Not at all,” Balin said, standing. “Come in. Gloin, this is Eilífr. Eilífr, my cousin, Gloin.”

Eilífr bowed. “My lord,” she said. “It’s an honor to meet you.”

Gloin had stood and bowed himself. “A delight,” he said. “You’ve kept my clerks hopping with your sharp questions, you have.”

Her cheeks reddened. “I hope I haven’t caused you any inconvenience, my lord.”  

He boomed a laugh. “On the contrary, lass. Keeps them on their toes. And speaking of that, I’d best get back to my own offices before they all fall asleep at the forge! You will let me know of any new developments?” he asked Balin, waggling his eyebrows in an alarming manner. “I’m sure Fríða will be most interested!” He didn’t wait for an answer, but issued another jovial boom and strode out.

“If the Timebells ever fall, we can just tell him jokes every quarter ring,” Nori remarked.

Balin agreed. “Make note of that, would you lass,” he said, gesturing to her usual chair. “How was your morning?”

She sat with a grateful sigh. “Full, my lord.”

“Of good news or bad news?” he asked.

“Both, I think.”

“How was lunch?” Nori said, with a side-eye at Balin.

“Lovely,” she said. “Bombur made those dumpling things—venison, I think, and something that couldn’t be spinach because it tastes too good. I asked him to save some for you; are you hungry now?”

“Not at the moment, thank you, lass,” he said, smiling.

“And how’d you like our Bofur?” Nori asked, his smile widening.

Balin wanted to throw an inkwell at it.

“He’s very personable,” she said. “He thanked me for spending time with his cousin; I told him it was ridiculous to thank _me,_ considering how kind Lord Bifur was to speak with me at all. He said . . .” She blushed.

“Go on,” Nori said.

“No,” she said, shooting him a look. “I’m sure he was just being kind.”

Balin made a mental note to speak to Bofur; though it looked like he could leave that to Nori. “Shall we have the good news, then?”

She nodded. “Orocarni is very interested in opals.”

“Or it will be, once Toki shows off his pretty, new necklace,” Nori said. “That was well done, little scribe.”

“Thank you,” she said, with a pleased smile.

“But it took you far too long to notice your followers,” Nori drawled.

“Followers?” Balin asked.

Eilífr glared at Nori. “I noticed them,” she said. “I just thought they were part of Ironfist security. Or your newest batch of noses.”

“My greenest recruit isn’t half that obvious,” the Spymaster said. “And I wouldn’t set them watching over a trouble-lodestone like you in the first place.”

“I’m the lodestone for trouble?” Her eyes went wide. “ _Me_?”

“I might track it down,” Nori said, “but it doesn’t follow me around like I feed it.”

“Oh? Shall we ask Dori about that?”

Balin tried again, a little louder. “What followers?”

She flushed. “That’s the bad news. Um . . .”

“Congratulations,” Nori said, grinning. ”You’re now the most eligible dwarf in Erebor. And Brýni’s made sure his competition will be sending you the most unsuitable courting gifts they can afford.”

Balin stared at him. “What? How?”

“Oh, it was beautiful, it was,” Nori said. He mimed holding something up with both hands and raised his voice to near-Gloin levels. “’Mistress Eilífr, does His Lordship favor thirty-pound pendants of rough coal set in copper? Elvish poetry? Paintbrushes made from the foot-fur of virgin hobbits? Oh, _good_! Shopkeep! I'll have four dozen.’ Genius,” he added. “Pure genius.”

Eilífr was shaking her head, her expression a strange, pink mix of embarrassment, despair, and possibly helpless laughter. “I’m sorry, my lord, I wish I could say it wasn’t that bad, but it was something to behold. He’s done his best to ruin everyone else’s chances all at once—they’ll think you _like_ rubbish like that. The pendants, I mean, not the—the brushes. Don’t be _vulgar_ , Nori,” she said, in a tone that reminded Balin of Dori.

“Have you met me?” he asked.

“Numerous times,” she shot back. “His Lordship isn’t a _mark,_ you know.”

Nori shrugged. “Everyone’s someone’s mark.”

It would only take two months to reach the Shire, Balin thought. Bilbo would need a house sitter to keep What’s-Her-Lobes from stealing the silver while he was visiting Erebor. “That’s the bad news?” he asked, just to make sure.

Nori went still, never a good sign. “It depends.”

“On what?” Eilífr asked.

“On why Lord Brýni went directly from the markets to the Aviaries and had a raven sent to the Red Mountains.” Nori’s dark eyes rested on Eilífr. “Everything seemed fine until you left Kampi’s shop. You turned back to say something and Brýni jolted like he’d seen an orc buying a teapot. What did you say?”

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath then let it out. “Lord Brýni and Lord Toki were outside. Kampi gave me a little packet, for luck; it felt like a gemstone. I worried that it might be considered a bribe, so I tucked it away to show Lord Balin. Kampi made a formal good bye and I returned it as I left.” Her eyes opened and she frowned. “Was it the packet? Does Lord Brýni think I take bribes?”

Balin knew that’s what they’d been hoping for, but he still felt anger for the Ironfist’s assumption—supposing that was the reason. But was that the reason for the raven? Brýni’s King was here.

Nori made a considering noise. “Has Brýni ever heard your father’s name before?”

Eilífr went pale. “Not from me. Do you think . . .?”

“I don’t know,” Nori said, tapping a finger on the table. “He hated the Ironfists, your adad; that was no secret. But after Azanulbizar, nobody much listened and in Ered Luin, no one much cared—it wasn’t as if he could do anything about it but drink and spit out poison. Ah,” he said softly, tugging at Eilífr’s sleeve as she hunched a little in her seat. “I’m sorry.”

Balin fought the urge to go to her and instead reached for the teapot and filled the mug Gloin had refused. “Surely Brýni wouldn’t blame you for your father’s prejudices,” he said, sliding the mug toward her.

She took it in both hands and held it close. “Adad always thought they might,” she said. “In his mind they were worse than monsters. But Lord Brýni already knew my Clan and didn’t do anything.”

“He’s a lot of things, this Ironfist,” Nori said, still frowning, “but vindictive isn’t one of them. He does follow orders, though. Maybe he’s asking for some.”

“King Svellr is here,” Balin said.

“Then this isn’t something Brýni wants him to know about.” Nori looked at Balin. “I suggest you stop throwing her in his path until we figure out what’s what.”

“None of this was my idea,” Balin said, then froze at the truth of it. They may have taken advantage, but every single extra-office meeting with Eilífr had been instigated—and insisted on—by Brýni.

Eilífr sighed.  “The treaties are too important—”

“Not as important as your safety,” he told her. “You've met him twice and done very well. But that’s it. You’ll not see him alone again.  You won't go _anywhere_ alone until we can get these slippery bastards out of our mountain."

“Too right, she won’t,” Nori said.

“I was never _alone_ with him,” she said. “And I don’t wish to spend any more time in his company than I have to. Though . . .” She shook her head. “I suppose was beginning to respect him, just a little.”

Nori lifted a braided eyebrow. “He _is_ good.  I don’t suppose you’d consider cancelling your Open Hours?”

“He can’t,” Eilífr said, in a tone that didn’t invite argument. “And I _will_ be handling the appointments, as usual. It's in my contract and I will _not_ let them chase me away.”

Balin nodded slowly.  He didn't like it, but his Chamber was guarded and she had her knife; as fond of Brýni was of playing to his audience, he was unlikely to drag her out of the antechamber in front of witnesses. 

And as much as he wanted Eilífr to be safe, he he knew that forcing her into anything wasn't likely to end well.  Which didn't mean that he wouldn't demand all precautions. “If Brýni appears—"

“Leave that to me,” Nori drawled. “You two have worse things to worry about.”

Balin and Eilífr exchanged a confused look.

The Spymaster examined his fingernails with a smug look. “Those courting gifts will be showing up any minute now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _______________________
> 
> Since I couldn’t find a name that meant, “Gorgeous bearded lady” on the Viking Answer Lady’s list of names (my go-to for this fic), I went with Fríða, which means love, peace, protection, and defense and has a pretty, little fancy bit over what I’d call a “d”, but probably isn’t.
> 
> I may have been channeling John Rhys-Davies instead of Peter Hambleton when I wrote Gloin. I have all respect for Mr. Hambleton’s talents, but Mr. Rhys-Davies’ voice tends to stick.
> 
> Oh, Bofur, if only my heart would let Eilífr fall for anyone but Balin . . . Or Bifur . . .


	14. Of Courting Gifts and Ear Trumpets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm overwhelmed by the response to the last chapter--thank you all for your kudos and comments!
> 
> Here's some romance and some plot, princely shenanigans and a bit of brotherhood--and maybe a little more about Dori than the author originally intended to imply. And we're finally getting to that dinner party that started it all, way back in Chapter One.
> 
> Whew!

It hadn’t taken more than three days for Eilífr to realize that Nori hadn’t been exaggerating.

As word had spread like Mirkwood spiderwebs that Lord Balin might be considering suitors, gifts had started to arrive from all levels of the mountain—and beyond.

Unfortunately, His Lordship’s personal chambers in the Royal Corridors were well-guarded and he had no guardian or intermediary, so all tokens of intent were brought or sent to his Office Chambers.

The table was covered again, nearly to the chandelier. Instead of being buried alive by paperwork, Lord Balin was in some danger of being literally smothered by professed affection.

That was bad enough, but far too many of the gifts were accompanied by suitors that made Lord Brýni seem as shy and polite as Ori appeared to those who didn’t know him.

Eilífr deterred them the best she could—luckily, the more persistent of them weren’t half as clever as the Ironfist—but her teeth were in a constant gritted state and even after meals, her temper was closer to breaking than she’d like.

None of these dwarrow—or the elf, and what was Prince Legolas, or more likely his wretched father, _thinking?—_ would make Lord Balin happy.

Not a single one.

In fact, the whole mess was making Lord Balin decidedly _unhappy_ and she couldn’t think of anything she could possibly do to fix it. Her contract didn’t specific courting management, but the spirit of her job—and the best part of it—was to make His Lordship’s life easier and she was failing miserably.

She’d taken to carrying Kampi’s luck charm—a round, polished garnet bead of a quality a bit better than a sample and much worse than a decent bribe, as Master Bofur had put it—in a pocket and rubbing it with her thumb when the urge to pin someone’s sleeve to her table with her knifepen became nearly overwhelming. If this kept up, the gem would be worn to a disk in a fortnight.

Out of concern for the damage her impatient fingers might do to ancient parchments, she’d spent her first free day in the Hobbit Garden, instead of the Library, yanking up weeds with vicious satisfaction and learning all manner of traditional insults from Lord Bifur, who did her the favor of not asking why she wanted to know.

The one bright spot was the raven bearing Bilbo Baggin’s reply. He had gladly offered any assistance he could to revitalize Erebor’s fields. To this end—and to see all of his dear friends, again—he intended to join the next caravan from Ered Luin, which was due to pass the Shire in less than a fortnight.

That message had earned the first full smile from Balin in days . . . though it only lasted until Brambur arrived with four of his fellow runners, all bearing gifts and missives declaring unequaled devotion.

Open Hours had become something of a relief to everyone; His Lordship had made it very clear that no gifts would be accepted during those afternoons and anyone attempting to make an appointment intending to propose instead of petition would be refused immediately.

Lord Brýni had only tried once, two days after the marketplace.

Eilífr had braced herself, but the moment he stepped in, a dwarf who had been sitting quietly in the corner—and who did _not_ have three conspicuous peaks in his abundant red hair like Erebor’s Spymaster was rumored to have—stepped between them, lifted a battered, ill-fitting ear-trumpet, and began braying theoretical questions about the law in a thick accent, paying no attention whatsoever to the impatient Ironfist behind him.

Eilífr had made apologetic faces, but had not stopped answering the increasingly bizarre questions until Lord Brýni had stalked out.

Nori had winked at her, tossed her the trumpet, and slipped out after him.

A few second later, the room had filled with quiet applause. Eilífr had allowed herself a small smile, placed the trumpet on a corner of her table, and picked up her pen.

She hadn’t been surprised when she returned from her break later that afternoon to find her souvenir had been replaced by a large red apple. But she’d been disappointed that the same thing hadn’t happened to the gifts.

Apples were so much easier to get rid of.

###

 

The real problem, Eilífr knew, wasn’t the gifts themselves, but the scant five days Lord Balin had to respond to each before everything became much more complicated.

Since His Lordship had far more important things to do, most of the burden fell to her.

Luckily, Ori was more than willing to help.

Of more uncertain luck was the unexpected arrival of the Heirs of Erebor.

Prince Fíli stared at the piles and whistled under his breath.  “I don’t know if I should be jealous or horrified.”

“I’m mostly horrified,” Prince Kíli said, with due consideration.  “Though that could change once we open them.”

“We?” Ori asked. “Who invited you?”

“We volunteered,” Prince Kíli said.  “You obviously need all the help you can get.  Not that I’m surprised,” he added hastily, glancing at Lord Balin, who had been studiously ignoring the entire situation all morning in favor of a set of difficult contracts, “but this is impressive.”

“Dori’s had more, I think,” Ori said, frowning in calculation and filial loyalty.  “Just . . . not all at once.”

“Shall we each choose a side and work toward the middle?” Prince Fíli asked, rubbing his hands together. “Or is there a plan?”

“No one will be opening anything,” Eilífr said.  “All the gifts will be returned.”

“ _All_ of them?” Prince Kíli asked, staring at her.  “Unopened?  I thought that was a grievous insult.  Balin, you told me I _had_ to open mine!”

Balin scowled and made a large red mark on the parchment in front of him. Eilífr wasn’t sure if he’d heard His Highness or not, but she was willing to indulge any selective deafness he chose to have; he had more right to be out of temper than she had.

“These are the ones His Lordship will open,” she said, pointing to the map case, where fewer than a dozen parcels waited.  “The ones on the right side of the table will be sent back, with notes of polite refusal.”

Lord Balin might have made a noise at the word “polite”, but when she checked, he was still deep in his contracts. 

“And this lot, here?” Prince Fíli asked.

“Those are anonymous,” Eilífr said.

“Who’s she, then? Ow,” Prince Kíli added, glaring at his brother and rubbing his side.  “ _What_?”

“You know what it means.”

“I _know_ I know what it means. It was a _joke._ I was lightening the mood.”

“Dumbing down the room, you mean.”

The Princes, Eilífr thought, as the elbows and insults escalated, were like night and day.  Prince Fíli was all blond curls and rakish braids, with a knowing smirk and sharp blue eyes as assessing as Captain Dwalin’s.  Prince Kíli was dark, shaggy, and small featured, except for his infectious grin and bright eyes that were kind instead of guarded.

But they were still definitely brothers.

“Did you want to start at the top left?” Ori asked her, studying the nearest pile. “Since they aren’t in runic order?”

“And when would I have had time to order them runically, Master Librarian?” she retorted. “It’s all we could do to avoid avalanche!”

“Fine.”

“Hey! Why does Ori get to open things?” Prince Kíli said. “That’s not fair.”

Ori sighed. “I’m not opening anything. I’m going to help Eilífr write the notes of refusal for the ones with names on,” Ori said.  “Balin can’t possibly do all of them on his own and he can trust us not to gossip.  _We’re_ discreet.”

“So are we,” Prince Kíli said, sidling over to the anonymous pile.  “We’d never gossip about something as serious as—oh, look, Fee.  I’ll bet you twenty this one is from Lady Mardris.  She used the same pink tissue and silver wire for mine.”

“And mine,” Prince Fíli said.  “I wonder if it’s the same kind of gift.”

They both turned as one towards Lord Balin.  When he gave them no acknowledgment, they turned to Eilífr.

“Please?” Prince Kíli asked.

“Won’t identifying these help?” Prince Fíli added. “Surely no one wants to mistake an unreturned gift for an accepted one.”

Eilífr eyed her stubborn-faced employer, who appeared deep into his contract. “Ori?” she asked.

He shrugged.  “Sometimes the notes are inside,” he said.  “Dori says it’s a sign of insecurity to force someone to open a courting gift like that, but Nori thinks it’s basic common sense.”

“What do you do?” Prince Kíli asked.

Ori shrugged again. “I let Dori deal with that sort of thing. I’m not very interested in all that. Neither is Nori,” he added.

“I’ll bet Dwalin is,” Prince Fíli said.

Ori ignored the comment, but looked pleased.

Eilífr sighed. “If you do open anyth— _stop_ , your Highness, please, _right now—_ you will need to unwrap them carefully— _no, not yet_ —and the rewrap them exactly as they were.  We will tag them on the outside—put it _down,_ please, I haven’t finished— once you redo them.  Prince Kíli, you make your own arrows, Nori says, so you must be good with wires and knotwork? Good; you are in charge of the wrappings.  Prince Fíli, you have a clear hand, so you’ll be in charge of the labels and making sure the wrappings are right.

“Open only one at a time, please, and if there are any disagreements or unseemly squabbles _, or breakages_ , I’m sure His Lordship will be glad to put a permanent stop to both of you. Are we very clear, Your Highnesses?”

They blinked at her.  “She sounds just like Amad,” Prince Kíli said, eyes wide.

Prince Fíli nodded.  “Is commentary allowed?” he asked.

“Encouraged, I should think,” she said and was rewarded by a wide grin and a pleased smirk.

Eilífr glanced over at Lord Balin and found that he had finally looked up from his work.  For a moment, she thought he might be upset that she’d just treated the Royal Heirs like two rambunctious dwarflings, but his lips quirked and she realized his eyes were crinkled in amusement, not censure. 

She was so relieved to see his mood lift, even a little, that she beamed at him.

He seemed startled, but his expression softened, changing into something that warmed her to her toes and whispered in her ears

_This One._

“This is from Lady Mardris, all right!” Prince Kíli said. “She must really like malachite vases.”

Eilífr swallowed and looked away, but the warmth remained.

“Wait,” Prince Fíli said, turning it over. “See that flaw, there, like a rabbit? This is the same one she sent me.”

“Really?” Prince Kíli took the vase and turned it in his hands. “You know, this looks like the one she sent to me, too—but I thought the flaw was a duck. See? Do you suppose that’s why she keeps trying to court the line of Durin?” he asked, grinning. “So she won’t have to make another one?”

“It’ll be Dwalin next.”

“No, it won’t,” Ori said, coming over to look at the rabbit-duck flaw. “He returned this last month. Move it the other way and it looks like something rude in Iglishmek. No, a bit more to the right. There.”

Prince Kíli snickered. “Does Dori know Dwalin’s been showing you dirty words?”

Ori smirked. “What Dori doesn’t know has never hurt me.”

“Does Nori know?” Prince Fíli asked, so quietly that Eilífr was sure she wasn’t supposed to hear.

“Yes,” Ori said at the same volume. “It’s all sorted now.”

Eilífr filed that away for later—but not much later.

Prince Kíli spun the vase in his hands before shooting a glance at Eilífr and setting it down very gently. “Is there anyone left of us for her to court?”

“Oin, I think,” Prince Fíli said.  “She went for Uncle first.”

There was a moment of doubtful silence.

“Well,” Prince Kíli said, “if she wants a high-born husband so badly, she can always rework the sigil a bit, glue a lot of random jewels to it, and try for an Ironfist.  There’s a whole assortment available.”

“I’ll bet it’s not the husband she’s after,” Prince Fíli said, seriously.  “It’s the child.  She’s one of those who want to be the mother of Durin reborn.”

The warmth in Eilífr’s chest went cold. Durin reborn.

Even if she could forget her own responsibilities enough to . . . he couldn’t.

He wouldn’t, shouldn’t be allowed.

Ori nudged her.  “Are you all right?” he whispered.

She shook off her mood. “Are you?”

He glanced at Lord Balin and raised a concerned eyebrow. “What’s going on?”

She raised one of her own. “What’s all sorted?”

He looked surprised, then rueful. “We need to talk.”

She nodded. “Later.”

He gave her his sweet smile and bumped her shoulder.

For the thousandth time, she thanked Mahal for Ori. She might lack a Clan and an official family, and she might never be able to claim

_(Her Lord)_

a One, but she was not alone.

She squared her shoulders and picked up the nearest parcel. Once these were out of the way, everything would go back to normal.

 

###

 

Balin was impressed. With the assistance of Ori and the Princes, Eilífr managed to sort out the majority of the gifts in two days, and had cleared the table of all but a few anonymous ones; if the senders could not be identified in three days, those parcels would go into the general treasury of Erebor.

Today, at her insistence, he’d reluctantly gone through the ones he had to open personally. These were from persons who held higher positions than he or who might claim insult if their refusals were not handled carefully—though one or two were from old friends who had made it clear in their missives that they wished to give him a safe alternative, should he need one, to a forced bonding.

Of all the offers, it was those last that he most appreciated. But the answer would be the same.

He wasn’t interested in any of his suitors, not because he was opposed to courting, but because none had impossible silky hair and gold-streaked brown eyes, a brain like an iron bear trap and an appetite like a Shireling, and a smile that made the Arkenstone a mud ball in comparison.

Which wasn’t to say that some of the _gifts_ weren’t eminently acceptable.

It didn’t surprise him that one of these was from Brýni. It sat on the table in its wrappings, while he tried to think of something more diplomatic to write than, “I wouldn’t marry you if Mahal Himself spelled it out in the stars and if you harm a single strand of my assistant’s beard, I’ll set the good will of our nations back to the First Age. But if you want to get rid of this reminder of my absolute rejection of your suit, I’ll gladly buy it from you.”

It was, he had to admit, the perfect gift: A stand, cleverly wrought of metal and wood, that rotated on two levels. The upper ring was full of beautiful pens, some with mithril nibs, and the lower held inks both common and rare. A crystal tray on the top held several sticks of his favorite red wax and a selection of wooden handles waiting to be fixed with his personal seal.

Eilífr was sitting in her chair, mug in hand, and looking at it with a wistful expression.

He wondered how much assistance she’d given in its selection. “Would you accept something like this, lass?” he asked.

“Not from Lord Brýni,” she said, still staring at it. She blinked, then flushed pink.

He opened his mouth to ask if there was anyone else she might consider but she tapped the schedule book. “You had better finish that letter tomorrow, my lord," she said. "Your Company’s dinner is tonight and it’s nearly Sevenbell.”

“So it is," he said, feeling deflated and relieved.  "I’ll go as soon as I—“

“You’ll go now, brother,” a deep voice said from the doorway.  Dwalin, dressed in what passed for his off-duty clothes, for all he remained fully armed, grinned at him.  “Good evening, lass.  I’ve come to escort your employer to Bombur's table.”

“Good evening Cap—I mean Dwalin,” she said, as he raised a bushy eyebrow at her.  “He is ready to leave.”

“I am?"  Balin asked.  He thought about being irritated, but the best he could manage was resigned amusement.  He wondered, not for the first time this week, if that was why Eilífr had quietly changed his afternoon tea blend to something a little less energizing.

“I have all the paperwork ready for your appointments tomorrow,” Eilífr said. “Late tomorrow,” she added, “just in case.”

“Good thought, lass. Don’t argue, brother. I have Dori’s ropes right here, and Brambur is waiting to send for reinforcements,” Dwalin said, patting the silken coil on his belt.

“I wasn’t going to argue,” Balin grumbled, secretly pleased that they wanted him there. And for once, he didn’t feel too busy to leave off for the day.

“Sure you weren't," his brother said.  "it's getting late; Brambur can escort the lass to the Library.”

“To her door,” Balin corrected. “If Ori has already left for Bombur’s.”

“He has."

“That's not necessary,” she said. "There are guards everywhere."

“Not quite," Dwalin said.  "And none to spare at the moment."

"I can find my own way," she said, sticking out that chin of hers. 

"And you can find it with an escort until we know exactly what Brýni is doing. Don’t think I didn’t hear about his visit the other day.”

“Nothing happened," she said.  "Nori took care of that."

“Nori isn’t here,” Dwalin said. “He’s at the dinner trying to explain to Oin why his favorite ear trumpet went missing for a whole day and reappeared under his pillow.”

"Is that where it came from?" she asked.  "I'd wondered."

Balin refused to allow her to change the subject; to be that clumsy about it, she must be tired, and hungry, too. “We’ll take you back ourselves if we must,” he said.  "Though if I'm paraded through Erebor for being late, it's on your head."

She sighed. “Brambur can walk me. Though if something does happen, I'll end up protecting him.”

“He’s quicker than a Rhosgobel rabbit and he knows the best places to hide,” Dwalin said. “That’s good enough for me.”

“And me,” Balin said. “Good night.”

“Good-night, my lord,” she said. “Have a good time. You, too, Ca—Dwalin.”

“Two more days and you'll have my name right,” Dwalin said, grinning.

The brothers set out, stopping briefly in the corridor to tell Brambur to deliver Eilífr to her chamber door.

“I’m almost disappointed I won’t be using this,” Dwalin said, as they walked to the Southern Quarter. “I know some of the others were practicing their knots.”

“I haven’t been missing these dinners on purpose, you know. I’ve been busy.”

“You’ve been overwhelmed, you mean.”

“Yes, fine. But that doesn’t seem to be the case now. Funny . . . I’m just as busy—busier, what with half the dwarrow in Middle Earth losing their minds—“

“Don’t sell yourself shorter than you are, brother.”

Balin shot him an unimpressed glare. “ _But_ , I seem to have a bit more time to breathe. It’s something of a miracle.”

Dwalin eyed the two guards standing before the archway marking the change from the Eastern to the Southern Quarter. They put their fists to their breastplates and stood aside to let them pass.

“She’s good for you,” he said.

“She’s bossy and managing and keeps changing my tea. She thinks my usual is too strong to drink at night.”

“Just what you need.”

Balin chuckled. “I know.”

“Going to start looking for a courting gift of your own, soon?” Dwalin asked.

“Are you? And do you know which one you’ll give it to?”

“I’m spoiled for choice: Ori for sweetness, Nori for excitement, and Dori for—“

“Never mind.” Balin had no desire to know why Dori had silk rope available and he certainly never wanted to know why Dwalin knew why Dori had silk rope.

Dwalin grinned. “Good thing I won’t have to.”

“No?”

“No,” Dwalin said firmly. “I won’t. They’ve done it for me, really.”

“Three,” Balin said. It wasn’t the number exactly—it wasn’t unheard of, or scandalous, for siblings to share a One, though it was less common in times of plenty—but . . . “Three _Ri brothers._ How did that _happen_?”

Dwalin grinned. “Just lucky, I guess.”

“Luck, indeed,” Balin said, gravely. “But which kind?”

“All kinds, brother.” Dwalin waggled his eyebrows until Balin rolled his eyes, reached up, and whacked the back of his head.

Dwalin rubbed his head and they ambled along in amiable silence for the length of a corridor.

“Is Eilífr your One, brother?”

Balin sighed. “I believe so.”

Dwalin clapped him on the back. “Wonderful! Ori had his hopes. I’m not sure whether Nori or Dori will put up the most fuss about it, but they like you well enough. And it’ll put paid to all this courting nonsense.”

“It’s not that simple. She’s mine . . . but I may not be hers.”

“For the love of—this isn’t going to be Gloin and Fríða all over again, is it?”

“No,” Balin said. “No. I have authority over her and she’s understandably wary of that. So I will have to be very careful, indeed.”

“Yes, because you’re usually driven by impulse” Dwalin said, rolling his eyes. “Do you really think that lass would refuse your suit?”

“I don’t know. Sometimes, I think she might return my regard . . . but then I think I must be mistaken. The last thing I want is for her to feel obliged—and I’m certain I’d rather stay at arm’s length than drive her away altogether. No, if she refuses me, I won’t bother her a second time. ”

“Well, then,” Dwalin said, as they arrived at Bombur’s door. “You’d better think up one hell of a gift.”

“Thank you for your unparalleled advice.”

Dwalin squeezed his shoulder as the door opened, letting out loud sounds of music and merriment. “What are brothers for?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had originally planned for the courtship between Dwalin and the Ri brothers to be a subplot and also something of a surprise to everyone involved. But when I began writing it out, some parts ended up predating the Quest and it was far too involved and detailed to fit easily into what is supposed to be Balin and Eilifr's romance from their POVs, darn it.
> 
> So I've decided to rework my subplot notes into a related-stand-alone and make these a series. If anyone is interested, I could also add some side stories and scraps that definitely happened during the writing of--like the first conversation between Bofur and Eilifr and a couple of Shire bits that will be mentioned briefly in this story--but were taken out so they wouldn't twist the POVs to breaking OR test your patience with my patented "Five Chapters in a Day" timelines.
> 
> Let me know if this seems like a good idea, please. :)


	15. Merriment and Menace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for your kudos, comments, and encouragement -- and for letting me know that you'd like to see Dwalin's story in detail (the first chapter is up now, because it was ready to go).
> 
> I'm planning to alternate updates for both stories (plus whatever bits become ready on their own time), but it shouldn't take any longer between chapters for this story -- we're getting close to reveals and revelations. Promise.
> 
> ______________________

The Fundin brothers were welcomed into the party with raised ale from all sides and a cheerful roar.

Room was made for them around a groaning table that was thankfully larger than Bilbo’s had been, though they were companions now, a true company, and no one would have minded closer quarters or stray elbows.

As was the custom, the company sat in the same general arrangement as they had in Bag End, which put Bombur at the end conveniently near his kitchen. Thorin, who had been so late he’d missed the original meal, took Gandalf’s seat at the other end.

Bilbo hadn’t had a place at the original gathering to keep empty in his honor, but Thorin had made it clear that if Bilbo and Gandalf ever attended one of these company meals at the same time, Thorin would gladly give up the head of the table—but _only_ to the former.

Balin smiled as he sat. It would be fitting if Bilbo were to be the “unexpected” guest once he arrived and he made a mental note to ask the others. With luck, Bilbo would arrive just before one of the dinners; concealing a lone hobbit in a mountain of dwarrow wouldn’t be the easiest of tasks and if they changed the usual date without good reason, Thorin would be suspicious.

Even without their Burglar, the company was very merry. There were eating challenges (Dwalin and Bombur and Ori) and drinking contests (Bofur and Gloin) and singing (Bofur again and, regrettably, Oin) and dancing (Kíli and Fíli on the table, Bofur on the floor by general consensus) and toasts to the missing (“To Hobbits!” “To Meddling Wizards!” “To Great Thundering Bear Men!” “To Bilbo Baggins!”) and much laughter (even Thorin).

Once everyone had settled enough for general conversation, there was a general catching up; everyone saw or contacted at least one other of the company daily and Nori kept everyone informed of things he deemed important or too embarrassing to keep to himself, but someone always missed something. And Thorin, as usual, read the latest missive from the Shire, which prompted several secretive smiles among the listeners.

The discussion eventually turned to the newest additions to the company’s extended families, including Bombur’s baby daughter, whomever Bofur currently favored, the latest list of Bilbo’s newborn cousins . . . and Balin’s new assistant.

“She’s kind,” Bifur said. “Lovely manners, too.”

“She’s nearly as scary as Amad,” Kíli said.

“Knows her way around a weapon, too,” Fíli added.

“She appreciates good food and my children like her,” Bombur offered.

“She’s easy on the eyes, too—ow, Bifur, what did I—no, I didn’t!” Bofur said. “All I meant was, she has a fine smile and likes a good joke. All right?”

“She’s very clever,” Gloin said. “Smart as a whip.”

“Who this?!” Oin asked. “Who are we talking about?!”

“Balin’s assistant!” his brother shouted into the old ear trumpet he always used for these dinners. “The dam he hired to dig him out of his office chambers!”

“Never met her!” Oin shouted back. “But I heard she’s gone and organized Balin!”

“That would make her a miracle worker, indeed,” Thorin said gravely, though the effect was ruined by his smirk.

“That she is,” Dwalin said. “And just strange enough to deal with you lot.”

He was immediately bombarded with bits of bread roll and catcalls about the colors of kettles and pots.

Balin rubbed his face and wondered if Eilífr would like the Shire. He’d build a Library for her, there, if she agreed to run away with him—he would do anything for her, if she would agree to that.

He felt a sudden sympathy for Gloin.

“A majority approval,” Thorin said, smiling. “What say the Ri brothers?”

Dori and Ori looked at Nori, who chewed a piece of sausage thoughtfully, stuck his eating knife in the tabletop, and theatrically patted his mouth with a napkin.

“We know our little scribe is good enough for His Lordship, there,” he drawled, a glint in his bright eyes. “We’re just waiting for him to prove the reverse!”

The room erupted in gleeful shouts of agreement, protest, or both until it became nigh unbearable.

Balin stood up so quickly his chair scraped back.

The laughter trickled off and the room went silent with confusion and concern.

“I am aware,” he said, frowning, “that it might seem an impossibility to all of you that such as I might be worthy of such a jewel as you describe. But that is something she will have to decide for herself.”

“This isn’t going to be Gloin and Fríða all over again, is it?!” Oin demanded in what was probably supposed to be a muttered whisper.

“So I would be grateful to you all,” Balin continued, “for any assistance you might wish to sincerely give in my endeavors to be worthy of her. And,” he said, raising his hand to forestall any reactions, “I would also ask the House of Ri,” he said, bowing as low as he could, “to bless my intention to court the daughter and sister of your hearts, Eilífr, daughter of Ólifr.”

The entire room swiveled to stare at the three silent dwarrow.

Dori looked at his brothers and raised an imperial eyebrow.

Ori leaned towards Nori and whispered something across him. Dori leaned towards the other side and muttered back.

Nori pulled his knife out of the table and speared another sausage. He took a thoughtful bite, then nodded, though it was difficult to tell if he approved of Balin or the sausage.

Dori sat back, regarded Balin, and inclined his head in a regal manner.

The cheers should have shaken the mountain and drowned out the Time Bells, and the numerous bags of coin sailing through the air--mostly toward Ori and Bifur—nearly took out the chandelier overhead.

Amid the noise and chaos, Balin sat down in whatever dignity he had left and not a small amount of relief and anxiety. There was no going back now.

She would have him or she wouldn’t.

But either way, he thought, as he watched his friends, his family, his _brothers,_ celebrate his intentions, he wouldn’t be alone, either in his triumph or his heartbreak.

 

###

 

The next morning was painful, but Balin was a warrior and Counselor of the House of Durin and he did not negotiate with headaches.

And he very much wanted to see Eilífr. He wasn’t going to say anything to her, just yet—though he hadn’t meant to state his intentions to the entire company last night, either—but just being in the same room with her was a joy, even if they were too involved in their work to speak.

Plus, it was possible she knew of a tea blend that would stop his temples pounding.

He dragged himself to his Office Chambers, just a bell later than he’d anticipated, which was still earlier than she was expecting him. He fondly braced himself for a respectful scolding and opened the inner door.

To his disappointment, she wasn’t there.

Nori was.

The Spymaster sat in the armchair in front of the fireplace, playing with a blade—a throwing knife, from the lack of hilt. He didn’t look any the worse for the night before, which didn’t make Balin feel any better.

“Good morning,” he said, going to the kettle on the hearth. Eilífr usually anticipated his arrival with a fresh-brewed pot, but she’d no doubt want to wait this morning, in case he was later than he’d meant to be—she knew how he disliked bitter-stewed tea.

The pot was already prepared with a gingery blend, so he filled it and left it to steep a bit. “Would you care for a cup?” He asked Nori, who only shook his head and waited until Balin filled his own mug, lowered himself onto the settee, and took a long draught.

His headache eased almost immediately and he sighed. If he’d needed further proof that the lass was his One, this would have convinced him. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked.

“I like you,” Nori said, as if he’d just decided.  “You’re honorable enough to be trusted with most things and enough of a bastard to be trusted with the rest.  And I have the feeling you’d rather throw yourself out of your pretty window than hurt our little scribe—and do the same to anyone else who hurts her.”

“I would,” Balin said, with all the gravity he could muster. 

“So I’m going to give you some advice—one dwarf of the world to another." The knifepoint flicked out.  "You will take things slow.  You won’t frighten her, you won’t corner her, you will always give her a choice, and you will respect the choices she makes.  Every single time.  Even if she decides to reject you. And _especially_ if she decides to accept you.

“Because just between you and me?  I'd hate to have what happened to that son of a Warg master of hers to happen to you.  I'm respectable now, or near as I'm likely to be, and I don't like lying to Dwalin—not about the important things."

Balin nodded.  "You have my word."

"Long as she has it, we're good."  The knife disappeared.  “Where is she, by the way?”

“She wasn’t here when you came in?”

Nori frowned. “No. And I’ve been waiting for you since Ninebell. ”

“Maybe she went to the Library. Or the kitchens. It’s early, but I told her to ignore the schedule if she needed to eat.”

“She wouldn’t do that unless she was falling down hungry,” Nori said, sitting up. “And even then, she’d probably send a runner.”

“She might have gone with him,” Balin said, but he drained his tea and stood. “I’ll check with the guards.”

Unfortunately, the guards had changed shifts. Balin sent a runner to catch the two that had been watching his door that morning and bring them in.

Nori was looking through the papers on the table. “No note.”

“Aren’t your people watching her?”

“They’re watching _for_ her,” Nori said. “If something happens outside of her usual pattern, she’ll be followed.”

Balin’s headache was coming back. “So they haven’t seen anything unusual?”

“Or they haven’t been able to send word.”

A knock came at the door and two guards came in and bowed. “Your lordship needed us?” one said.

“Did Mistress Eilífr arrive at her usual time this morning?”

“Yes, my lord,” the second guard said. “She arrived at Sevenbell and left at half past Eightbell.”

“Left?” Nori asked. “Why?”

“She didn’t say. We asked if she needed an escort, per your orders, my lord, but she took a runner, instead.”

“Who?” Balin asked, relaxing a little. “Brambur?”

“No, my lord,” the first guard said. “She went with the runner who delivered the gifts.”

“What gifts?”

The guard pointed to the map case, where they sat, still tied. “Those two, my lord.”

Balin went over to look at them, but the labels held nothing but formal words and two unfamiliar names.

“Who was the runner?” Nori asked.

The guards exchanged glances, but either recognized Nori or his tone or total authority. “We didn’t recognize him, sir,” the first one said. “But runners move all over the mountain. He might have been stationed in a different Quarter.”

“Did you ask his name?” Nori asked.

The guard swallowed. “No, sir.”

“And you just let him go wandering in with his pretty packages, did you?”

“Not alone, sir,” the second guard said. “I took him through and knocked, then waited there with the door opened partway until they left. Mistress Eilífr didn’t give me any sign that she needed help.” To his credit, he looked worried, rather than defensive.

“I would have said she left willingly with him.” the first guard said, also looking worried. “She was smiling at him.”

Balin relaxed further. The lass was sensible. If she’d gone anywhere against her will, she’d have found a way to let someone know.   His gaze went to the table and landed on the schedule book, which had been left open.

Of course.   He shook his head at himself and decided to blame his headache.

He flipped back a page, then another. Then forward.

“Nori,” he said, so sharply that the Spymaster spun around. “Today’s page is missing from her schedule book.”

They exchanged grim looks and looked at the guards, who straightened.

“What did this runner look like?” Balin said.

“Taller than usual, but slim with it, and his tunic was a bit short, like he’d just had a growth spurt. Light hair and a full beard and mustache,” the first guard said. “Bushy so it was hard to see his face. Blue eyes. Braids were simple. Maybe Broadbeam?”

His partner nodded. “No beads, only clasps.”

“What kind?”

“Silver,” the first guard said. “Simple etchings. No jewels.”

The description didn’t mean anything to Balin. “Find Captain Dwalin and bring him here,” he told one of the guards.

"He's in his office," Nori said.  "Knock softly.  And you," he added to the other guard.  “Give Mistress Salvǫr the description you gave us and see if she knows him.  If she does, bring him here.  If she doesn’t, tell her we have a fake and she’d better count noses in case he didn’t steal that tunic from the laundry room."

The guards bowed and hastened away.

“You’d better see if any of your checkpoints have gone missing,” Balin said, knowing what his voice sounded like.

Nori hesitated uncharacteristically, then left.

Balin went to the teapot, filled his mug, and downed it in two swallows.  Then did it again.

It didn’t warm him at all.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um. Sorry?
> 
> Thoughts?


	16. Captivity and Clues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a little ahead on my Camp Nanowrimo project, so I managed a chapter!
> 
> Hope it works?
> 
> _________________________

Eilífr woke up with a terrible, pounding headache, a strong hand gripping the back of her neck, and a choking mouthful of too-sweet, warm liquid.

She spluttered, swallowed, and shoved herself upright and away.   For a moment, she thought she was going to be sick, but she fought the sensation down.

“Why didn’t you _tell_ me you had Hallr’s Affliction?” a voice said.

“Who’s what?” she asked, groggy. She clutched at the warm mug that was thrust into her hands. “What’s this?”

“Red clover tea with half the sugar bowl in it,” he said, impatiently. “You fainted.”

“I don’t _faint_. Ow,” she added, touching a painful place on the side of her head. “You hit me?” That seemed like overkill.

Or underkill?

She went still and tried to determine, without moving, if she still had her knives.

“I didn’t have to,” he said, offended. “The corner of the table hit you when you _didn’t faint_. Drink your tea.”

She sniffed it. “Why?”

“I don’t have any food here.  You shouldn’t have skipped breakfast.”

“I didn’t. I ate early and thought I’d be back before my— wait. Why is that any your business?”  And why was he using the Stonefoot name for her condition?

“Because if I‘d _known_ ,” he was saying, “we would have stopped at the kitchens first. You’re lucky I had red clover on hand. _Drink._ ”

Eilífr upended the mug and swallowed it down like medicine. It was taken away from her, filled, sugared, and thrust back into her hands.   She drank half of it and took a breath.

Her headache eased off a bit and she took the time to notice that she was sitting on something soft—a bed piled with blankets and furs—and then to take a closer look at her surroundings.

It was a pleasant room, which wasn’t surprising, though it seemed an odd place to keep a prisoner, condemned or otherwise.

“Does this mean you aren’t murdering me?” she asked. “Later, I mean—you’re obviously not doing it right now, unless the tea is poisoned. Or meant to be a last meal?”

“Why would I do that?” her captor asked, sitting down in front of a large mirror. He picked up a brush and began dealing with his rat nest of a beard.

“Why did you do _this_?” she asked, gesturing with the mug and splashing herself a little. The movement pressed the hilt of her knife against her back. Good.

“Because,” he said, “I need to keep you out of the way until it’s over. You were ruining _everything_ ,” he added, tossing the brush down and picking up a glass cruet.

“Sorry?” she said, wondering why she was apologizing to someone who had lied to her, locked her up, hadn’t even bothered to catch her when she’d fain—lost her balance, and had forced her to drink tea.

Even if the tea was clearing her head like magic.

“I should think so,” he said, pouring a little oil from the cruet into his hand and applying it to his beard. “If you hadn’t decided to cozy up to your betters—“

“I did no such thing,” she said. “I was doing my job.”

He snorted and tried the brush again. “Of course you were.”

It was stupid to face away from her but she supposed he could see her in the mirror. She slowly reached behind her and touched her knife. Letting her keep her weapons was even dumber.

He was going to be sorry about that. And even sorrier if Lord Balin realized she was missing before she could leave. Because he’d most likely send a note to the Library and Ori would know she wasn’t there and he’d ask Nori to track her down and if Dori found out she’d disappeared. . .

She should probably get moving before everything descended into chaos.

Though she’d sit for a bit, maybe. Just until her thoughts and her stomach settled enough to escape. Since he wasn’t planning to kill her . . .

. . . . Probably.

She set down the empty mug, put her hand into her pocket, and held onto her garnet.

The other hand remained on her knife.

 

###

 

Balin squeezed the quartz sphere in his pocket and tried very hard not to crush it to dust. The other hand had rested on hilt of his sword since he’d retrieved from the settee.

“Breathe, brother,” Dwalin rumbled, squeezing his shoulder in passing. “We’ll find her.”

Balin knew that. Everything that could be done was being done by the people he trusted to do it. But it had been several hours since Eilífr had gone missing and it was becoming very difficult to hang onto his patience and his temper.  

Ori, who had completed the last of the sketches he’d created of the runner from the descriptions of the guards who had last seen her, was searching through Eilífr’s notes as Nori and Dwalin took statements from the guards and spies who appeared sporadically to check in.

As far as Nori’s people could tell, Eilífr had disappeared between the Eastern Quarter and the kitchens. No one from the checkpoints along that route had spare either of them a passing glance—until Nori had questioned them and they’d realized she and her companion, whose description had consisted mostly of hair, had entered the main corridor past the kitchens and failed to emerge from either end.

Brambur had stood still long enough to deny knowing the dwarf in Ori’s sketch and to ask about the stretch of corridor where Mistress Eilífr had apparently disappeared, before taking off with two of Nori’s trainees to scour the entire area.

The unknown runner had been disavowed by an irate Mistress Salvǫr, who had reported none of her charges harmed or missing, thank Mahal—but according to the guards, Eilífr had gone willingly with the imposter. She’d even _smiled_ at him

Had it been a real smile or a diplomatic one?   Had she been threatened? Was she trapped somewhere, alone and afraid? Or did her abductor—or abductors—have something worse in mind? She would fight, Balin knew she would, but if she was overpowered . . .

“I want this entire mountain searched,” he said. “ _Now._ ”

“I would have my guards turn the mountain upside down and shake it, if we could, brother” Dwalin said, his eyes gleaming at the thought. “But if her captor gets wind, he might . . . cut his losses.”

Nori looked up. “So, we only tell the company,” he said. “We’re all over the mountain, now—we’ll search it ourselves. And Thorin will need to prepare.” He turned to one of his people and started murmuring instructions.

“Prepare for what?” Dwalin asked.

“For what we’ll do if she isn’t return alive and unharmed,” Dori said, with an expression like grim death. He turned back to the hearth and began stabbing at the fire with the poker hard enough to chip the stone box.

Balin exhaled and stared at the two gifts brought by the false runner. He’d opened them, in the hopes that the content would help, but they were meaningless to him.

Dwalin poked at the jewelry case on the table with a thick finger. “Faked names, do you think?”

“Aye,” Balin said, resisting the urge to start pacing again. “Gloin says that they aren’t on the tithing rolls. The gatekeepers are looking through their ledgers for dwarrow, but I’m sure they won’t find them there, either.”

“These aren’t cheap,” Nori said, picking up the earring. “Why give the real thing, when they could have wrapped plain stones?”

“Maybe this stuff was lying about.” Dwalin poked the jewelry box again. “It wasn’t chosen for Balin. Everyone knows he doesn’t wear jewelry.”

“Not everyone,” Balin said sourly. “Thanks to Brýni, I was sent a mountain of the stuff.”

Ori frowned. “If someone thinks Eilífr is giving him an advantage, maybe they want to get her out of the way.”

“Or punish her for her betrayal,” Nori said, very softly.

There was a loud snap and a clang from the fireplace. Dori looked at the broken poker in his hand and closed his eyes. Ori and Dwalin both went to him and he slumped in their arms.

“There’s another possibility,” Nori said, but before he could elaborate, Brambur came in, flanked by a nondescript dwarf who would, Balin imagined, be a different kind of nondescript tomorrow.

“M’lord,” Brambur said, panting a little. “There are only two passages they could have taken that wouldn’t lead them in circles or past a guard station. One leads to—”

“ _Can_ lead,” the nondescript dwarf said, giving Brambur an impressed side-eye. “If you know exactly where you’re going.”

“—to the Smelting Halls. The other leads to the Royal Guest Chambers.”

“Good lad,” Balin said, through the anger that had lodged in his throat. “Thank you.”

“Well, well,” Nori said.

“The Ironfists,” Dwalin growled, stalking over to the table. “Thorin needs to be told.”

“Not officially he doesn’t,” Fíli said from the doorway. Kíli was behind him. Both were fully armed. “But rest assured, he won’t be surprised—it was the first thing he thought of when Nori’s messenger arrived.”

“That’s it, then,” Kíli said, with no trace of his usual good humor. “We’ll go and—“

“No, it isn’t,” Ori said suddenly. “And no you can’t. It’s coincidence.”

Nori raised an eyebrow. “She was feeding them biased information about the treaties. It’s the most likely—“

“But not the _only_.” Ori pointed at Eilífr’s papers. “What about those dwarrow who were committing claim fraud, the ones she kept reporting to Bofur? They might know the Mountain as well as any of us. From the Smelting Halls, they could go anywhere. You only caught one of them, right?” he added, to Dwalin.

“That’s right,” Dwalin said, frowning. “You think his partner took her for revenge or something? Would they even know about her role in it?”

Ori looked torn. “I don’t _know_. That’s the _problem_ ,” he said. “But if we go charging after the Ironfists and they don’t have her, it’ll be a disaster—“

“It had better be the Ironfists,” Nori muttered. “They’ll keep her alive.”

“Unless Eilífr’s father was right,” Ori said. “And they’ve just been waiting to—”

“ _That’s enough of that!_ ” Dori thundered.

There was a moment of silence.

“Bofur has a team searching the unclaimed shafts,” Nori said, a trace of apology in his voice. “Bombur has half his brood listening in on every conversation in the Halls and the other half searching the marketplace. And Bifur is standing guard at the _Melhekhinhaz Buzn_ , in case she gets free and makes her way there. Someone will find something.”

There was a knock. “Lord Balin?” a guard said. “Lord Brýni is—“

“Right here.” Brýni, bejeweled and braided, stepped into the room and stopped short as everyone in the room stared at him. “Am I interrupting something?”

Balin lifted his sword before he knew he’d drawn it. “Are you here to negotiate terms?” he said.

“I’m here to negotiate lunch,” Brýni said, as if the point of a blade wasn’t a mere two feet from his heart. “I wanted to discuss the opal trade with Mistress Eilífr. Is she available?”

“No,” Balin said. “She isn’t.”

“Ah. Am I wrong in assuming that . . ." His gaze moved to the table and stared. “Where did you find those?” he asked in a sharper tone than he’d ever used in Balin’s presence.

“Courting gifts,” Ori said. “They arrived this morning.”

Brýni’s face went blank. “Who sent them?”

Ori glanced at Balin, then recited the names.

Brýni frowned. “Are there notes?”

Ori handed them over. Brýni’s frown deepened and his expression darkened.

Balin sheathed his sword. “Do you know anything about these?”

“I don’t recognize the names.”

That was perhaps not a lie, Balin thought, but it wasn’t the whole truth. Something had shaken the Ironfist.

“They were delivered by this dwarf,” Nori said, holding up one of the drawings. “Disguised as a runner.”

Brýni examined it. “I don’t understand,” he said under his breath.

“Do you know him?” Balin demanded.

“I thought I—but . . .” He stopped as Fíli and Kíli flanked him and all three Ri brothers moved closer. “What is going on? Where is Mistress Eilífr?”

“She left with the same dwarf, hours ago,” Balin said. “They’ve disappeared somewhere inside the mountain. She may have left a note in her schedule book, but the page is torn.”

“You think he _kidnapped_ her? That’s quite the leap of logic.”

“Yet, she isn’t here,” Nori said, a flash of silver appearing in his hand. “If you know who he is, you will tell us.”

“Right now,” Ori said.

“He wouldn’t hurt her,” Brýni said, as if he was trying to convince himself. “He couldn’t.”

“He doesn’t have to,” Dori said. “If he doesn’t think to feed her, soon, she’ll collapse.”

Brýni’s eyes widened. “She has Hallr’s Affliction?”

“What do you know about it?” Ori said.

“I know that we’d better find her quickly, if she has it. How long has it been since she’s eaten?”

“She had breakfast with me,” Brambur piped up. “About Sixbell.”

“Hallr's Affliction?” Balin asked.

“After the First Dwarf of the Stonefoot Clan—only those of his blood ever suffer from it. It’s not uncommon in Orocarni,” he added.

“So it _is_ an Ironfist!” Kíli said.

Brýni ignored him. “If she tells him she’s having symptoms, I’m sure he’ll—“

“If she notices,” Ori said. “She doesn’t, always. And if she’s scared or he left her alone . . .”

“Right,” Brýni said. He nodded to himself. “I’ll help you. But I need your oaths that you won’t hurt him.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t think he means her any harm. And if he does . . . if he has . . . then I claim the right to name his punishment myself.”

Everyone shouted at once. “You!”

“You have _no_ rights here!” Dori hollered about everyone, even Dwalin

“He is of my Clan,” Brýni hollered back, all pretense of the languid dandy gone. “And she is—“

“She is our _kurdu_ _namad!”_ Ori yelled. “And she's Balin’s One!”

Brýni’s sharp eyes snapped to Balin. “Is she?”

“She is,” Balin said, his hand gripping his hilt. “What is she to you?”

Brýni’s hand went to the pouch on his belt but Fíli short sword halted the movement. “She’s—“

“Master!” A dwarf rushed in and made straight for Nori, a guard on her heels. “Master! The dwarrowdam—she was found unconscious in one of the back passages! She’s been taken to the Healers!”

They froze for a moment.

“Tell them to give her tincture of red clover, mixed with sugar,” Brýni barked. “As much as they can, forced down her throat, if they must. Run! ”

The dwarf looked at Nori, who made a sharp gesture. She took off.

Dori and Ori rushed for the door.

Balin and Brýni eyed each other.

“Go,” Brýni said. “I’ll find the one who did this and bring him here. Ah,” he added, as Fíli’s blade once again impeded him. “Would You Highnesses care to accompany me?”

“Try and stop us,” Kíli said.

“I believe I’ll tag along,” Nori said, his smile as pointed as his knife. “Look after our little scribe,” he told Balin.

Balin nodded and ran as if Wargs were after him.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's probably obvious who the captor is. But just in case I'm cleverer than I think I am, please don't spoil it in the comments, should you wish to (please?) leave one. Though it would be helpful to know if, and when, you figured it out!
> 
>  _Kurdunamad_ means heartsister. I think I stole the idea from NovusArs' "Lost and Found", which stars (in my opinion) the most adorable Gimli ever written.


	17. Dreams and Doubts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi.
> 
> Sorry for the extensive delay and the shortish chapter. I had Camp Nano and then my new job kind of kicked my rear, energy-wise, and I have a major editing project that Must Take Priority.
> 
> But I wanted to offer a "yes, I'm still working on this" token. And if you squint your ears, you can hear most of the Company in the first paragraph, plus their least favorite Ironfist.  
> ______________________________

 

 _Where has she—is she hurt? There's_ blood _on her—how long has she been—at least half an—bad bump on her head, look—this is_ your _doing, you damned Iron—I swear on my Amad’s life I had nothing to—Ha! Your Amad—stop it both of you, this isn't_ helping _—when did she last eat —smells like she’s already been fed red clover, that’s good, but—how much do I prepare? _—_ the question is, how much can she have before it does more harm than—why listen to _him?— _because I don’t know enough about Hallr’s to—and h_ _e’d poison a Stonefoot as soon as save—I would no sooner harm her than—Mahal's balls, this is a_ sickroom _, not a sparring ring—I'll stand guard—no,_ we'll _stand guard—_ Hurun ganat, Azbadu men _—We just heard! How is she?—EVERYONE OUT!!_   _Not you, you can stay,_ yes, _and you—where do you think_ you’re _going?—you three have prior_ —no, _deal with him and come back, she’ll want you here . . ._

 

 

Voices. 

Too many voices.

She tried to bat them all away.

"She moved! Oin, she—"

Someone lifted her and made her drink something far too sweet and she was _tired_ of everyone doing that, but before she could tell them, they all went away again . . .

 

 

_"I'm not trying to ruin anything," she lied._

_"You're trying to attract his attention."_

_"No, I'm not," she said, feeling her face heat.  "I'm just doing my job. And he couldn't possibly be interested in me, anyway."_

_"No?" he said, glaring up at her. "Then why did he send a drawing of you to his father?"_

_"Lord Balin? I thought his father was—"_

_"Not_ him. _Lord_ Brýni _._ ”

_"Did he?” Her hand slid to her back. "Why?"_

_He finished another braid and capped it with a pale orange jewel. "You tell me."_

_"I don't know." Her fingers touched nothing.  Where was her knife? She’d just had it—_

_"I don't believe you."_

_"Believe what you want,” she said._

_Where was her_ knife _?_

 

 

She awoke to more voices babbling in her confused ears and strong hands holding her flat, holding her _down._

She struggled as much as she could, but it wasn’t _working._

"Keep her still," a gruff voice said. "The more she moves, the less effective the—"

"I'm trying."  This voice was familiar—and worried, but that was familiar, too. And comforting, somehow.  "I don't want to hurt her. What is she reaching for?"

"She has a knife," someone said from farther away. The touch of concern in  _his_  tone was troubling— when _he_ worried, she knew, there was something to be worried _about_.  "She's lying on it."

"No, she's not." Gruff Voice said.  "It's over there on the shelf, with the others.  Easy to tell she's one of yours."

"Not mine, but I thank you for the compliment."

"You would," Worried Voice snapped, but he didn't mean it.

How did she know that?

"Eilífr! You’re safe.  I promise," said still another voice, but this one meant books and warmth and family and she could trust its promises.  "There.  That's better.  Is she dreaming?"

"I hope so. That means she's getting better." A _fifth_ voice . . . but it was the right one. The right One . . . but not for her? A warm hand, hard with callouses—from a sword?— slipped into hers. "Time to wake up, lass. We need you. _I_ need you."

What that true? She wanted it to be, even if she couldn’t remember why it couldn’t be . . .

 

 

 _"You_ want _them to marry?"_

 _"It doesn't matter what I want,” he said. “ Brýni was told to marry a Longbeard, and he_ likes _Balin.  They're both smart and clever and important."_

 _"Lord Brýni’s not so smart if he doesn't know how you feel about him. Or how he feels about you." Or how Balin_ didn’t . . .

_"He doesn't—" A pained look crossed the half-braided face.  "I'm not suitable."_

_"I know the feeling," she muttered._

_"No, you don't." Blue eyes met hers in the mirror. "He thinks I'm an empty-headed nuisance.  I don't care about politics or meetings or . . . or even contracts."_

_"You're clever enough.  Look at your disguise."_

_"Brýni always said the best disguise is the one you never take off."_

_"Or the one you can," she said. "When you need to."_

_He frowned as he placed a bead._

_"Does Lord Brýni have a disguise?"_

_He gave her a nasty look. "Wouldn't you like to know?"_

_"I would. He confuses me."_

_"Let him. He's not for the likes of you."_

_"I don't want him to be. Believe me. And you don't need to be good at meetings or politics," she said, coming closer. You’re a genius at your own craft," she said._

_"I don’t have a_ craft _.”_

_She reached out with her free hand and picked up the carving, the one he'd used to convince her to leave with him.  "Yes, you do," she said, holding it up.  The raven gleamed in the light,muscles bunched and wings spread to take flight.  "Have you shown this to His Lordship?"_

_"It won't matter."_

_"It might. And if it doesn't to him, it can still matter to you” Her head swam and she tried to focus. “It_ matters _that it matters to you . . . oh, dear . . ."_

 _He twisted and grabbed her as she slumped. “Food,” he muttered, half-carrying her to the bed. “Food and more tea . . . Now where did I put that key?  Do you_ have _to make everything twice as difficult as it needs to be?_ ”

 

 

She awoke not to voices, but a chorus of low snores.

Something soft brushed against her arm and a warm weight rested comfortably against her hip. She opened her eyes, wincing a little, even in the low light, and turned her head.

A great deal of white hair spilled across the blanket that covered her, some of it falling across its owner’s broad forehead. She lifted her hand and pushed the errant locks behind one large ear so she could see the rest of the sleeping face.

It was important, that face, and she frowned at it, trying to remember why and how through the warm fog of her brain.

He was handsome enough and not as old as some would guess by the color of his hair. His robes were rich garnet and though he wore no jewelry,

(and no beads that she could see, which could meant that he didn’t belong to anyone else, but didn't mean he belonged to)

she could tell he was not lacking for money.

One of his hands was resting on the blanket and while one finger was stained with ink, it was strong and looked as though it had been used to wield heavier weapons than a pen.

She remembered the feel of warm, rough callouses, though it seemed like a dream she’d had. She breathed in the scent of strong tea and tobacco and leather . . . and of ink and paper, too. Was he family?

No. _No._

But he _mattered,_ and it mattered that he mattered . . .

Lost in thought, she carded the white beard through her fingers. The strands were thicker, though, and her fingers caught.

There was a low snort and she pulled away, suddenly unsure.

Two sleepy brown eyes blinked, then caught her gaze and went wide. “Eilífr,” he whispered, sitting up. “You’re awake,” he said, a little louder.

“Good . . . morning?” she said.

His smile took her breath away. “It is now, lass. It is now.”

Her heart thumped and she couldn’t help smiling back. “I don’t . . . everything is still fuzzy,” she said. “And I don’t mean to be rude, but . . . are you . . . you’re important to me, really, _really_ important, but there’s something I don’t . . . “

He stared at her.

“Did . . . did I say something wrong?”

He shook his head. “Unexpected,” he said. “Something you don’t. . . what?”

“I don’t _know_ ,” she said. “But . . . are you my . . . No,” she said. “No, you couldn’t be.”

“Am I your what, lass?” he asked, his voice so gentle she almost couldn’t bear it.

“Eilífr?”   A freckled face popped into sight, adorably sleep-rumpled. “Eilíe!”

Her memory suddenly supplied half a jumbled lifetime. “Ori,” she said. “How . . . how did I get here? What happened?”

“That’s what we’d like to know.” Another face appeared, this one crowned with three reddish-brown points. _Nori._ “Don’t suppose you’d care to share?”

“Give her a moment to gather herself,” Worried Voice—no, _Dori_ —said. A hand covered hers. “Oh, thank Mahal you’re awake,” he said. “We were that frightened.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, feeling tears well up. “I didn’t mean to.”

“Nothing about this was your fault,” the white-haired dwarf said. “I can’t—we can’t tell you how relieved we are that you’re safe.”

“Are you?” she asked, before she thought.

“Aye,” he said, and it sounded like a promise.

“Balin was with you the entire time,” Ori said, with that mischievous expression of his that she wished she _didn’t_ remember. “nearly two days.”

“Two days?” she echoed. And then, as more memories came tumbling into place, making her head thump and sending sparkling lights into the edges of her vision, she said, “Balin?”

 _Lord_ Balin?

“It’s true enough, lass,” her One said. "I've no place more important to be."

“Oh,” she said, and let the rising darkness take her.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So . . . still with me? :)


	18. Reveals and Resolutions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, everyone who stuck with me, even when I didn’t update or reply to most of your lovely comments (thank you!).
> 
> I could tell you, with complete truth, that I had to put my geriatric cat to sleep the day before my birthday a few weeks ago and there’s been a barrage of non-cat family stress, but mostly, I was just . . . blocked. Not only on this story, but on the thought of writing anything at all. Even grocery lists.
> 
> So I didn't for a while. I read and worked and slept and coped and forgot a lot of things at the store.
> 
> And then I sat down two days ago and the block was gone. First thing I wrote was this chapter.
> 
> I hope you think it's worth the wait . . .

Three days after Oin had deemed Eilífr well enough to leave his direct observation, Balin went back to his office chambers—which had been cleared of courting gifts with all haste and ruthless etiquette—resumed his Open Hours, and immediately began missing his assistant, who was not allowed to return to work for an entire week.

Eilífr’s temporary replacement was good at handling the appointment book and keeping the more belligerent petitioners in line, but he couldn’t provide the same level of legal assistance or research skill.  He also refused to make tea or reshelve books and parchments, but Balin thought that was probably for the best, even if he was running dangerously low on his favorite orange blend and the growing piles on the table had already absorbed half his pens.

But aside from all that, he missed _her._   Her quiet companionship and spirited discussions and the way she tugged at her beard when she was considering a passage.  He knew she was his One, but he hadn’t quite realized how much he’d come to depend on her presence in such a short time.

And then there was the way she’d looked at him when she’d first awakened, as if he was someone to treasure. . . it had given him hope that she might feel something for him beyond respect and perhaps fond affection.  But again, he knew he needed to wait until she was fully recovered from her illness to broach the subject.   If his own sense of honor hadn’t stopped him, the Ri brothers would have.

But any struggles he was having  paled beside her own frustrations in being forbidden any kind of physical or mental exertion—and upon being told that she would be staying at Dori’s instead of her own room at the Library, so that she wouldn’t be tempted to sneak down to her beloved ancient parchments.  Everyone in the room had been forced to hide their grins at her disgruntled expression, which had betrayed her plans to do just that.

Balin sighed a bit and brought his attention back to Hvítkárr and Hird, who had returned for a few final adjustments and the signing of their contract.

"Where’s that dwarrowdam?" Hvítkárr growled, once every detail had been nailed down and their signatures had been affixed at the bottom and stamped with Balin’s seal.  “You haven’t replaced her with that sharp-tongued numbwit out there?”

“No,” Balin said, suppressing his agreement with the insult.  “Mistress Eilífr will be returning soon.” 

"But not soon enough?" Hird asked with a friendly smile, adjusting his long legs under the table with the ease of constant habit.

Balin chuckled.  "I’m afraid not.  Next week.”

"Good."  The black-haired dwarf said.  "We have business to discuss.  Won’t wait."

"Although it will," Hird corrected gently, "until Mistress Eilífr is feeling better."

Hvítkárr folded his arms and grunted.

"What kind of business?" Balin asked.

"Marriage contract," Hvítkárr said.  “Won’t have anyone else.  She agreed last week.”

For a moment, Balin was sure the mountain had collapsed on him.  “You . . . she agreed . . . a contract?”

Hvítkárr squinted at him.  “You have a problem with her drafting one for me and my mine?  She said she would do it on her own time—for _free_ ," he added

Balin shook his head to clear it.  “No,” he said.  “Of course I don’t.  She’ll do a fine job for you and . . . yours, I’m sure.  May I offer congratulations?" What kind of One had Mahal crafted for such a . . . challenging dwarrow?

"Thank you," Hird said, taking Hvítkárr’s hand in his much larger one.

Hvítkárr grunted again but didn't pull away.  A very small smile might have appeared under the heavy, black beard.

"The marriage vows of my people are much simpler," Hird continued, "but I know Karri would feel more comfortable knowing that we’re bound by his own customs—"

"Too right."

"—and since he and I have quarreled since we first met—"

" _Cows_ ," Hvítkárr muttered darkly.

"— debated every single step of our _extremely long_ courtship—“

Hvítkárr snorted, but his black eyes were very bright.

 “—and _finally_ agreed that there’s no one else on Middle Earth we’d rather hammer out a disagreement with than each other,  I figured we’d best start our life together as we mean to go on."

 “With a complex legal battle over your mutual devotion?”  Balin asked.

Hird smiled and squeezed Hvítkárr’s fingers.  “We’re worth it,” he said.

The dwarf  _blushed._   “Too right.”

Balin shook his head.  Mahal worked in mysterious ways.

 

By a stroke of luck, the rest of his appointments ran short and there was still a good portion of the afternoon left when the last petitioner took her leave. Balin wondered if he should head for the Garden, where he knew Bifur had taken Eilífr that morning in a valiant effort to entertain her, or if he should send a note to Dori, instead, asking if he might visit that evening.

Before he could choose, the temporary clerk stomped in without knocking, scowling around his spectacles.  “I told ’is Lordship there weren’t no more hours in th’ book today,” he said, moving aside to show Brýni.  “Shall I show ‘im the door?”

"Please,” Brýni said, as if the word was foreign to him.  “It will only take a moment.”

 Balin looked at him.  The Ironfist was dressed as soberly as Thorin—rich fabrics, but in muted colors, and while his hair and beard were braided in the fashion of the Red Mountains, they were not weighed down by a fortune in jewels.

Brýni took his silence as acceptance.  "I'm here to withdraw my suit.  Please keep my courting gift as a token of my continuing admiration, with the hopes that my actions won’t affect any present or future negotiations of mutual interest.”

Balin didn’t bother with pretty words.  "They won’t.”

"Thank you.”  He hesitated.  “How is Mistress Eilífr? I’d hoped she would be here.”

“Oin says that there’s no permanent damage.  She’s stronger every day.”

Brýni closed his eyes.  “Good.  That’s good.  He didn’t want—” The Ironfist cut himself off, but it was enough to spark Balin’s temper.

"Who took her?  Don't tell me you don't know."

"I know that only Mistress Eilífr has the right to accuse him.  If she chooses to name him, I’ll turn him over to your brother myself.”

"She won't tell us."

"Then she must have her reasons."  Brýni exhaled.  "He didn’t know she was afflicted.  He wouldn't have hurt her."

That's what Eilífr had said.  Repeatedly.  "He did."

"He kept her alive.  He was going for help—”

"He wouldn't have had to, if he hadn't taken her in the first place!” Balin roared.

"I know!”  Brýni scrubbed a hand over his face.  “I know.  He thought . .. He thought many foolish things.  I take the blame for some of them.  But I will swear on any of the Valar you wish that he did not intend to hurt her in any way . . . save losing you.”

"She will _never_ lose me," Balin said.  Even if she refused him, he was hers until Mahal reforged them both.

"I had that impression," Brýni said.  "I want to . . . May I see her?"

"Why?"

"I wish to discuss a private matter with her."

"No."

"I understand your reluctance," Brýni said drily.  "But I don’t think she would thank you for it.”

Balin glowered at the Ironfist, caught between jealous anger, and the knowledge that beheading one of Svellr's delegation would destroy any hope of an alliance with the Red Mountains.

"Making decisions for others, even out of love, never goes well.” He exhaled.  “Believe me. And I truly wish her no harm.  In fact, I wish her all happiness."

"With you?" Blain asked, thinking of the drawing sent by crow, to Orocarni.  If Brýni didn’t want Eilífr dead . . . perhaps he just wanted her.

"With her One,” Brýni said, giving him a look.  “Whoever _that_ may be. For what it's worth,” he added, “ I believe she would accept your suit—with the right incentive."

"Are you claiming she can be bought?" Balin growled.

"To the contrary; Mistress Eilífr is impossibly incorruptible—and I should know.  But a little reassurance goes a long way when one is uncertain of one’s place in the world.  May I see her?"

"I'll take him,” Nori said, taking off his ridiculous spectacles and standing taller in his clerk’s uniform.  "If she agrees, Bifur, Dori, and I will be at hand.  If she doesn't . . ." Nori grinned.  "Bifur, Dori, and I will be at hand."

Balin nodded reluctantly.  "So long as it's her choice."

"I will abide by any choice she might make.” Brýni bowed with far less dramatics and more sincerity than he'd displayed before.  “Thank you, Lord Balin.”  Another bow.  “Master Nori.”

The Spymaster’s smile deepened. “Oh, this one's so sharp he’ll cut himself ‘n spare us the trouble.”

“I do so hate to be a bother,” Brýni told him as he walked into the antechamber.

Balin closed the door behind them and rubbed his eyes.  There were half a dozen things he should be doing and a dozen more he wanted to do instead—like attending any discussion between Brýni and Eilífr, possibly with his sword drawn and ready.  He’d promised her she would never have to see the Ironfist again.

But that same Ironfist was right; he couldn’t make her choices for her.  He’d be a fool if he tried.

He put his hand in his pocket and took out his striped quartz sphere, watching it change colors and comparing each to her eyes.

Maybe he was a fool anyway. An old, romantic one.

He walked around the table and dropped into his chair.  After a moment he pulled a piece of blank parchment to him and searched for a pen.  And then searched for ink.

After a moment of thought, he started to write.

Because he might be a fool, but he wasn’t a coward.

 

###

 

 

Eilífr had been furious when Oin had forbidden her from assisting Lord Balin _and_ from working in the Library—and doubly so when her plan to do some midnight examinations of the First Age contracts was foiled by the brothers Ri.

She _knew_ she’d been ill, she _knew_ that she needed rest and to eat to a strict schedule.  But she also knew that trying to keep still and quiet and _useless_ would be as bad for her as doing nothing.  For a _week._

“And how bad would it be for us,” Ori had said, giving her those blasted soft eyes of his, “if we found you breathing your last over an ancient parchment that you were “just reading” all night?  What would I do then?”

“Save the parchment?”

“Eilífr!” Dori said. “You don’t know how close to death you were!”

 “I know.  I know and I’m _sorry—_ “

“It’s not _you_ who should be sorry,” Dori said, with a pointed sniff at her refusals to tell them _who did_ , “but you _should_ be taking care of yourself.”

 “I _am,_ ” she said, lifting the latest mugful of an endless ocean of red clover tea.  “I’m drinking this blasted stuff every minute and remembering to eat and I’ve had three whole days of strict rest.  So if I _promise_ not to overdo—“

“You don’t know how to do anything else, little scribe,” Nori had said in her ear as Dori continued to express his affection in a rant about her current proximity to Mahal’s Halls.  “Neither of us likes to sit on our hands and wait, but that’s the best way to be of use right now—if not for you, for those who would be lost without you.”

“Fine,” she’d said, slumping.

Dori’s parlor had been comfort itself and unspeakably dull.  The only things that broke up the tedium were the meals Bombur sent to her and the latest gossip from  Brambur, who apparently hadn’t allowed anyone else in the family to make the deliveries. 

Ori had tried to teach her how to knit, but Dori had taken her needles away after she insisted on finishing just one more repeat of the pattern—“Only twenty-three more rows!”—before she stopped for dinner.

Her enforced idleness gave her plenty of time to notice that Lord Balin hadn’t come to see her.

Because, she thought morosely, watching the firelight glow through the round garnet as she rolled it in her palm, there was no reason why he would—and several reasons why it was better that he didn’t.

And no way to distract her from the hopelessness of it all.

If had been a  relief for everyone when Bifur had knocked on the door the next morning and offered to take her to sit in the Garden for the day.

“I suppose a change of scenery would do you good,” Dori said, and proceeded to fill every bottle he had with tea and pack the contents of several cupboards into a large sack.  “I want all this gone by Sixthring,” he said, handing everything to Bifur, “and Eilífr back in that chair by half-past.  And no planting or weeding or digging in the dirt," he told her. "And rest several times on the way there and back again.  Oh, dear, I’d better come, too.”

Eilífr had opened her mouth at this, but closed it when Bifur flicked his fingers in warning.  “Thank you, Dori,” she said instead, as meekly as she could.

Dori sent her a suspicious look, then chuckled.  “All right, then, I’ll see you there and comfortable and leave you be.”

With that concession won, Eilífr gladly allowed him to carry her part of the way and arrange her to his satisfaction on a blanket near the river, with a bench at her back in case she wished to sit up.

She did, as soon as he left.

“Dori is the best of elder brothers,” she told Bifur in ancient Khuzdul, lifting her bottle of tea with a grimace.  “But he can be a terrible . . .”

Bifur smiled at the bush he was pruning and said a word she didn’t know.

She repeated it slowly, and again after he corrected her pronunciation, then parsed it out.  “Pot full of . . . A fusspot?”

He nodded and they laughed together a bit, before she coughed and he pointed to her bottle. 

She obediently took a swallow.  “Would Master Oin approve of language lessons?” she asked.

Bifur put his hand to his heart.  “A conversation between good friends is never work,” he said, eyes twinkling as he handed her a stem of berries to sample.

The informal lessons were a great help to Eilífr's state of mind, even if Bifur made her take a nap after she yawned twice in one sentence and she’d dreamed odd dreams among the grass and flowers.

He woke her with lunch and regaled her with stories about the Quest, some of which were new to her.  And if the tales more often than not centered around the elder son of Fundin, she neither mentioned it nor minded too much.

And if he let her poke a row of holes in the ground by her blanket and drop a few seeds in each, it was their secret.

Until Bifur was on his feet and looking behind her, down the hillock.  “ _Ku ganag yom_?” he shouted.

“The elders of the House of Ri, yer Lordship,” said Nori’s voice.  “And someone begging audience with the little scribe.”

“The Ironfist,” Bifur said.

She pulled her fingers out of the ground and wiped them on her discarded napkin. “Lord Brýni?”

“Do you wish to converse with him?” Bifur asked.

She thought about it.  "No," she said.  "But I believe that I should."

"Not alone."

"No, but . . ."  She looked around.  "May I ask that you all stand where you cannot hear?  Perhaps near the brook?"

He muttered under his breath, but assisted her to the bench and went to inform the others.

As she waited, she drank a whole mug of tea, out of nervousness.

Finally, she saw Dori take a stand some distance away, to the left and turned to see Nori to the right.

A moment later, Lord Brýni stopped in front of her, with Bifur close behind.

He looked . . . different.  Quieter, muted in a way, and far less prideful.  He'd removed a mask, maybe more than one, and she wondered why he'd bothered.

Bifur bowed to her, gave Lord Brýni a warning look while touching his axe, and left.  Without looking, she knew he was cutting off the Ironfist's exit.

"Please don't," he said, when she made to stand.  He indicated the bench. "May I?"  

She nodded and he sat at the other end.   

"I won't name him,” she said. "And I won’t tell Captain Dwalin about his disguise or his motives until after your delegation leaves.”

A bit of the tension went out of his bearing. "You're within your rights to bring the whole thing down."

"I already have. You won’t be allowed to do to Erebor what your people did to Orocarni. . . but I understand why Tóki thought he had to help you.”

He nodded. "He thought you were enticing me away from our orders.”

"You’re his—wait.  _Enticing_ you?   _Me_?"

“I admire intelligence, loyalty, and shrewd competence. He knows that.” He smiled. “Why do you think I chose to pay court to your employer? Týki thought he might capture the heart of the younger prince and be that much closer to the throne, but if I had to marry for power, I wanted someone whose company I could enjoy.”

Eilífr made a mental note to warn Prince Kíli, though she didn’t think his heart was in any real danger. “But why would he think you would betray your people for me?”

“I dined with you.”

“To bribe me into betraying Lord Balin.”

“I took you shopping in the marketplace.”

“So I could help you court Lord Balin.”

“And I sent a drawing of you to my father.”

Eilífr went cold. “He told me you’d done that. I'd forgotten.” She looked at him. “Did you send it because I’m a Stonefoot?”

“You _are_ clever,” he said, smiling with genuine delight. “Yes.”

Her hand crept to her knife. “How long have you known about me?” Had her father been _right?_

His smile  widened. “We’ve been hunting you for _years_.”

Her knife was in her hand and she moved quicker than she ever had, sending them both back onto the grass. “And now you’ve found me,” she said, under the shouts of Dori and Bifur.

“That I have,” he said, looking up at her, as amused as someone with a blade to his throat could be. “ _Cousin_.”

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So . . . Was it?


	19. Of Cousins and Confessions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your kind words of support -- things are looking up and you helped immensely. Thanks also for standing by this story through late updates and various cliffhangers.
> 
> This is a double reveal chapter which I hope works -- I rushed it a bit, since I'm about to spend a week in a place with extortionate WiFi rates and killer roaming charges and I wanted to get this chapter to you before I left. 
> 
> Likewise, if you decide this is worth a comment and I don't acknowledge it right away, I'm not deliberately ignoring you--I'm just a couple hundred miles away from the nearest library!
> 
> __________________________________________________________

“I am _not_ an _Ironfist_ ,” Eilífr said, after she’d been forcibly separated from Lord Brýni and Nori had removed the knife from her hand—though he held it as if he would gladly hand it back, given half an excuse.

“No,” Lord Brýni said, from his position at the other end of the bench, flanked by Bifur and Dori.  “You are Eilífr, daughter of Ólifr, son of Lífr of the Stonefoot Clan.”  He held up both hands in a universal sign of harmlessness and carefully reached into his hair with two fingers.  He brought out a single, simple braid, holding a hematite bead.  “And I am Brýni, Son of Buldi . . . and of Ailífr, daughter of Lífr of the Stonefoot Clan."

“Ailífr?”

“Your father’s younger sister,” he said.

“My father’s sister was twenty years older than he,” she snapped, outraged by his lies and her inability to see how he planned to gain by them.  “Gilífr died when he was a child."

“Your father had two sisters.  One still lives.”  He plucked the bead from his braid and held it out.  Nori took it, examined it, then passed it to Eilífr.

She stared at it, covered in tiny carvings like her own, barring a few names she did not know. But she recognized several: her father’s parents and his uncle, whom she only knew through stories, and Aunt Gilífr. 

“Where did you get this?” she asked.

“My mother gave it to me when I came of age.  She has one as well, though ours are not so well carved as yours.”

“I don’t understand,” she said.  “My father said we were the last of our Clan.”

“By name, but not by blood.”  He looked at Nori. “There’s a letter in my tunic, and two drawings.”

Nori moved to extract the parchments from the unresisting Ironfist.   He scanned the letter and handed it to Eilífr.

“ _Dearest Son,”_ it said, in a lovely hand.

>  “I have sent you the portrait you requested and a second, older drawing, in the hopes that it will prove that our family has been found at last, if too late for any reconciliation with your uncle. 
> 
> I can only pray that Ólifr’s daughter is as kindhearted as you say.  If she cannot bring herself to claim kinship with us, please reassure me that she is happy and wants for nothing.
> 
>     Your loving Amad

 The seal was familiar—the symbol of the House of Lífr, though intertwined with the same symbol that had been stamped on Lord Brýni’s courting gift.

“This isn’t true,” she said, her mind whirling.  Someone—Dori—handed her a bottle of tea and she drank deeply.  “How can this possibly be true?  Why are you doing this?”

“Look at the drawings,” Nori said, trading them for the letter, which he passed to Dori.

She did and saw her own eyes and nose, set in the older face of a richly dressed dwarrowdam.  The hair was elaborately braided in the Ironfist style and the beard was crimped and curled, but all had been beautifully colored in shades of brown from honey to strong tea.  The runes underneath the portrait named her “Ailífr of Orocarni.”

“My mother,” Lord Brýni said.  “I assumed immediately that you were related to her in some fashion—you are like two gems cut from the same seam.  But we could find no connection to your mother’s family and while we knew your father had found his One, we did not know her name.  So I assumed any connection would be only very distant, until I heard you say his name in the marketplace.”

Eilífr moved to the second drawing, of two dwarflings.  One was a younger version of Ailífr looking even more like Eilífr in her simpler braids and dress.  She had her arm around a young dwarrow who was even more familiar, though his expression was not.

“This is my father?” she asked, her fingertip hovering over his face. She’d never seen him smile before.

“Ólifr, son of Lífr, brother to Ailífr.  My Uncle.”

“He never said a word about her,” she said.  “I never knew she existed.”

“He didn’t approve of her marriage,” he said.  “And when the Stonefoot Clan left—”

“Left?” she said, looking up sharply.  “We were driven out.”

“They chose to leave,” he said gently. “For various reasons.  But those who had found their Ones among the Ironfist Clan chose to stay.  There were a fair number of them—that’s why Hallr’s affliction is still known in the Red Mountains.”

“That’s how he— _you_ knew how to help me,” she said.

He nodded.  “After Azanulbizar, word was sent that the Stonefoot warriors who had marched against the Orcs had been decimated.  We’ve been looking for other survivors ever since.”

She remembered her father’s greatest fear.  “To end them?”

“No!  To offer them refuge and a home,” he said.  “But all we found had died or married into other Clans or went into hiding.  As years went by, most of us stopped searching for relatives, but I could not bear to assume that my mother’s family had died out, not until I had proof that they no longer lived.”

“You found no one?”  she demanded.  “None at all?”

He grimaced.  “So far as we know, you may be the last who may claim to be Stonefoot in name as well as ancestry.  But that does not mean you’re alone.”

“It means exactly that,” she said, then glanced at Dori’s shuttered expression and regretted it.  “Or maybe not exactly. Have you been wearing this the entire time?” she asked, returning his bead without Nori’s protective interference.

“I never remove it.  But who can hear a single note in a cacophony?” he said, drily, sliding the bead back onto his braid. 

She did the same.  She shouldn’t believe him.  It was _dangerous_ to believe him.  But that was her father’s way of thinking, and therefore suspect. 

 “You’re absolutely certain about this?” Dori asked, folding his arms and staring at Brýni like the Ironfist was a would-be suitor who didn’t quite measure up to a father’s exacting standards.

“I am convinced,” Brýni told him, spreading his hands in sincerity.  “But I understand if you and your friends would like time to make sure.  Or to ignore it entirely,” he added, “in view of my previous behavior.  But I would be grateful if you would judge politics as one thing and family as another—and not hold my mother responsible for my actions.”

Eilífr nodded slowly, feeling as if her entire world had twisted sideways.  “I think I do need time,” she said.  “It’s not that I don’t believe you, but . . .”

“I wouldn’t, not at first,” he said, smiling.  “Please, take all the time you need.  I’m sure you’ll want to discuss this with Lord Balin as well.”

She froze.  “Yes,” she said, trying to sound calm.  “Yes, of course. Thank you, milord.”

He stood, a wry smile on his lips. “If you decide to accept our kinship, I hope that you will also agree to drop the formalities between us, Mistress Eilífr.” He bowed to the group in general, and left, escorted by Bifur.

After a moment, Nori drifted after them, but Eilífr barely noticed. Just as one worry ended, more crowded in to take its place—How would Lord Balin react? Would he believe her when she said she hadn’t known?  Would he think she was a spy?  Would he send her away until the delegates left?

Could she get away with ignoring the whole thing until after the treaties were signed?

No.  “Dori?” she asked.  “Could you please ask His Lordship to visit tonight after dinner?”

“Not _for_ dinner?" Dori asked.

“Thank you, but after would be better,” she said.  She didn’t think she’d be able to eat a thing as it was.

  

###

 

The Timebells struck Eightring as Balin approached the Ri home, scrolls under his arm and quiet hope in his heart.  He wasn’t ready to declare anything—or, rather, his courting gift wasn’t ready—but if tonight went the way he wished, he might be able to hurry things along.

Before he could knock on the door, Dwalin appeared next to him and took out a key.

"You've moved in?"

"The beds are better here than the slabs at the Guardhouse," his brother said.  

Balin noted the use of ‘beds’ instead of the singular. "Do you need me to negotiate on your behalf?"

"Not yet."

"Are you waiting for anything in particular?”

"I could ask you the same question."

"It's been a busy week."

Dwalin conceded the point with a nod and unlocked the door, swinging it open far enough to hear Eilífr say, "What will Lord Balin think?" she said, panic in her voice.

Balin moved, but Dwalin held him back, a watchful expression on his face.

"You aren't an Ironfist," Nori said.  "Any craving for pastels? No?  Good.  Balin won't care, unless you decide to leave Erebor—"

“She isn’t leaving Erebor,” Ori said.  ‘They can’t make her leave.  Not _legally."_

"I'm not leaving!”

"No one’s asking you to, dear," Dori said.

"No one can tell you, either,” Nori added. “Just let us know if someone tries.”

"But you might want to visit your aunt someday,” Dori went on.  “She'll know things about being a Stonefoot that your father wouldn't have thought to teach you."

Dwalin raised his eyebrows and Balin felt his own lift.  Aunt?

"Oh," Eilífr said, sounding troubled.  "I didn't think of that.”

"You could ask Balin to arrange something,” Ori said, sounding far too innocent.

Dwalin snorted and Balin stepped into the room, to find Dori in the kitchen, and the others sitting around the table.  "Something needs arranging?" he asked.

The Ri brothers turned to Eilífr.

She swallowed. "Lord Brýni . . . I spoke to him today.  Or he spoke to me.  In the Hobbit Garden."

Balin searched her face; she was tense, he thought, but not afraid. He glanced at Nori, but found no further insight there. "He found you, then.”

"Yes.  He said. . . He said . . .”

Ori nudged her with his elbow when she didn’t speak further.  “Show him.”

She handed Balin two portraits. At first glance he assumed it was Eilífr’s mother, until he noticed the name. “Ailífr?”

“My father’s sister.  And . . . and Lord Brýni’s mother.”

Balin nodded slowly.  “I think,” he said, “I should like to sit down for this story.”

 

 

“Cousins,” Balin said, after he'd heard the story from three points of view, with added commentary from Ori, who was clearly upset at having missed it all, and a few pithy remarks from Dwalin, whose attitude had clearly not warmed toward Ironfists in general or Brýni son of Buldi in particular.

Eilífr nodded. “Yes, my lord. Possibly.” She sighed. “Probably.”

“That does explain some things,” he said, rubbing his chin and hoping that his relief at one or two of those things wasn’t premature. “Are you safe, then?”

“As safe as I always was,” she said, fiddling with her mug. “And a bit more than I knew.”

“I simply can’t believe that miserable father of yours would disown his own sister," Dori said, plunking a bowl of fruit down on the table.

“I would,” Nori muttered from his relocated spot on a nearby stool.

“He must have loved her very much," Ori said, studying the drawing of the two siblings.  "But he lost his home and she sided with his enemies.  Or so he must’ve thought."

“My father was stubborn," Eilífr said.  "Even before my mother and brother died and all his hopes with them, he never forgave easily, if at all.”

“His hopes," Dori scoffed.  " _His_ hopes, _his_ people, _his_ grudges," he mumbled, clattering around the kitchen.  “Meanwhile _his daughter—”_

“What was he hoping for?” Balin asked.

Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “He wanted to restore our Clan.”

Nori snorted. “I never saw him volunteering to do the heavy lifting. So to speak,” he added, as Dori glared at him.

“He loved my mother,” she said. “She was his One. Say what you want about him,” she added, “but he was loyal.”

“He was a fool.”

“I know,” she said. “But his goal wasn’t at fault, just the means.”

Balin puzzled through what he’d just heard. “Your father expected his two children to rebuild an entire Clan?”

She shook her head.  “No.  Just my brother.  My charms weren’t enough to convince someone to marry into a dying Clan with no power and no riches.”

“Or that’s what he told her, over and over,” Nori muttered, under Dori and Ori’s immediate protests. “And then blamed her every day of his useless life,” Then, louder, “The good news is that the old bastard wasn’t entirely paranoid,” he said.  “The Ironfists _were_ after you.”

“But he put the worst possible spin on it,” Dori said.  “Imagine frightening a child half to death, just because he couldn’t bear to forgive his sister.”  He came over to give Eilífr a one-armed hug.  “You could have had family to help you all these years.”

“I had family,” she murmured, hugging him back.

“True,” he said, patting her back.  “True.”

She let go and looked at Balin.  “Does this . . . does this change anything for us?”

He drew in a sharp breath, but she continued, “I mean, I know you didn’t want me helping with the treaties any more, anyway, but I can keep to the office, just to be . . . oh, but maybe you . . . I shouldn’t assume you would want our contract to—”

“I miss you, lass,” he said.

“Oh,” she said.

They looked at each other, for perhaps a bit longer than necessary, until he coughed and she hid behind her mug.

Ori grinned and there was an amused sound, probably from Dwalin, but Balin ignored them. “I didn’t hire your family. I hired _you_ , and you’ve done nothing to lose my trust and everything to secure it. You’re welcome to come back and save me from my own messes whenever you’re ready.”

“I’m ready _now,_ ” she said.

“You are _not_ ,” Dori said.  ‘You’ve just had a setback”

“No, I haven’t!”

“A shock then.  You’ll have the three remaining days of rest Oin prescribed and not a moment less.”

Eilífr slumped in her seat and drained her mug in a most resentful fashion.

Balin cleared his throat.  “May I suggest a compromise?”

“No compromising until after the—ow!” Nori rubbed his head, and whipped the offending apple back at Dwalin, who caught it and handed it to Eilífr.  “Not the way to this dwarrow’s heart, O Captain.”

Dwalin leaned back, his chair creaking, and smiled lazily.  “Liar.”

“Sweet talker,” Nori said, sliding off his stool and stretching slow. “I’m off for a walk. Don’t wait up, brothers mine. Sweet dreams, little scribe.  Your lordship," he added to Balin, offering a courtly bow. He gave Dwalin a look that wasn’t difficult to interpret and sauntered out, his red braid switching down his back.

Dwalin sighed heavily.

Eilífr darted glances to Ori and Dwalin and the open door, her brow wrinkling the way it always did when she was putting pieces together. Balin was surprised she didn’t know already, though he supposed the Ri brothers had wanted to keep things private, until everything was settled.

From their expressions, it appeared that everything was.

“Go on,” Dori said, amused. “What are you waiting for? An engraved invitation?”

Dwalin raised an eyebrow. “I thought I’d try playing hard to get.”

Ori rolled his eyes. “Don’t strain yourself,” he said, and got a gentle apple to the forehead for his trouble. He handed it to Eilífr, who had finished the first one.

“Please stop throwing perfectly good fruit,” Dori said.

“I don’t mind,” Eilífr said, with her mouth full. She was watching Dori, now, too.

Dwalin stood, ruffled Ori’s hair, bussed Dori on the cheek, and sauntered out the door. “I’ve got my key,” he said.

Eilífr’s eyes widened and she started coughing. Ori thumped her on the back and Dori refilled her mug. She darted a look at Balin, as if sussing out his reaction.

He smiled. Brotherly ribbing aside, he’d quickly abandoned any attempt to understand the complexities of his brother’s relationship. Their obvious contentment was certainly enough for him—not that they needed his approval. If they asked, though, he would be delighted to craft them a formal contract.

Speaking of . . . He reached for the scrolls he’d brought. “Hird and Hvítkárr sent their lists to me to pass to you.”

She blinked. “I’m sorry; I asked them to wait until I received permission, but . . .”

“Hvítkárr was quite adamant,” Balin said, grinning. “But no permission is necessary—your free time is your own.”

“Yes, but I’ve never done a marriage contract before and I was hoping—they’re very particular, and—”

“We can treat it as a training exercise, if you like.”

She exhaled. “Thank you,” she said.

“Shall we look these over, then?” Balin said, reaching for the first one.

“No work,” Dori reminded them.

“If learning that my worst enemy is a close relative and not, in fact, an enemy at all didn’t finish me off,” she said, “I doubt anything would.”

“This isn’t work,” Balin said, “It’s merely reading. And confidential reading at that.”

Dori sighed, threw up his hands, and stomped into the back room.

Ori, who was a Master Scribe and could have stayed, instead hugged Eilífr good night and went upstairs, murmuring something about playing gooseberry. Balin had heard Bilbo say that under his breath once or twice during the Quest, though he didn’t usually sound so pleased about it.

Balin moved his chair around and unrolled the first scroll between them. “This is Hird’s list.”

“Land rights,” she said. “That’s easy, you’ve already done that.”

“ _We’ve_ done that. And if they want you to do more than a few minor adjustments, let me know,” he said absently. “Continued support for his mother and nephew . . . living arrangements—I might have an idea about that,” he said, thinking of the smials in the Shire, which should suit Man and dwarf alike.

Eilífr had read on. “There isn’t much else, just inheritance and burial. Is such brevity standard for Men? He hasn’t asked for half that he’s entitled to.”

“I should think Hird’s personality is a greater factor. Here’s Hvítkárr’s list.” He snapped it open with a flourish and in unrolled the length of the table and over the edge.

“Oh, dear,” she said. “I hope there’s _some_ common ground.”

“That’s your job, lass.”

They went through it line by detailed line, speculating on what Hird might say, what compromises could be made, and also occasionally touching on what they themselves might consider important in a contract of this kind.

Balin didn’t dare to make notes, but he wanted to. “Strictly speaking, your role is to mediate conflicting demands and write down the couple’s final decisions,” he said, instead. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t suggest modifications, if they seem amenable to them."

“Amenable,” Eilífr said, "is not a description that fits Hvítkárr. At all.”

“True enough,” Balin said. “What’s next?”

“Children,” Eilífr said. “Is Hird a woman?”

“No,” Balin said, thoughtfully. It was sometimes difficult to tell with Men, but Hird had a beard and Balin had learned to take that as a rule of thumb, except in rare circumstances. “And Hvítkárr isn’t a dam, either.”

“Then he’s either trying to start an argument or he doesn’t know how dwarflings happen,” she said.

“Perhaps a bit of both?” Balin said. “What provisions does he want, lass?”

“Any offspring shall be raised as Khazâd, unless they’re over five feet tall. Any children over five feet tall shall be raised as Men.”

“Height isn’t the only measure of a dwarrow,” Dori sniffed, bustling in to pour more tea into both their mugs. “Dwalin is well over that limit.”

“Dori,” Eilífr said.

“I know, I know. I only caught a bit.” He paused by the door. “But whoever that is had best negotiate ceiling heights instead of dividing families for things that don’t matter.”

“What about things that do matter?” Eilífr asked, once Dori was out of earshot.

“Children can be fostered for many reasons,” Balin said, wondering what she meant. “I suppose Hvítkárr might be aiming for that—supposing I’m right about Hird. One of them is bound to be of appropriate height.”

She chuckled, but it seemed to be an effort. “I’m sorry, my lord,” she said. “It’s been a long day.” She slipped out of her chair. “Thank you for being so generous with your time.”

Without thinking, he touched her wrist and she stilled.

She stared at him with those beautiful eyes of hers. “My lord?”

It was too soon—his courting gift wasn’t ready—but he had to speak. She had to _know._ “It’s not generosity, lass,” he said softly. “It’s admiration.”

Without looking away, he reached into his pocket and took the sphere that he had carried out of Erebor and back again.

“Here,” he said, folding it in her hand. “I’ve had this since I was a small lad under this mountain.  My Amad gave it to me. It’s not . . . it’s only soft quartz, but there’s iron running through it, making it glow with a warmth that gold can’t hope to match. Of all my true treasures, it’s the one I have always held dearest.” He let go of her fingers. “Please accept it.”

She opened her palm and looked at the small, banded ball. “I . . . but why?”

“Because,” he said, “it reminds me of you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does this count as a cliffhanger?


	20. Heartstrings and Mushrooms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kudos and kind comments! Let's hear it for supportive fandoms! \o/
> 
> I can’t say it wasn’t restful (and productive) to be off the Internet grid for a while (once the Webdrawal spiders went away) but it's nice to be back.
> 
> I rewrote this chapter countless times and finally ended it sooner than I wanted to so I’d stop fiddling with it. There is actual plot advancement in here, though . . . somewhere . . . so that’s something. 
> 
> Right?  
> ____________________________________

Eilífr didn’t know what to say—not with the quartz glowing in her palm, not with the warmth of Lord Balin so close by her side that she could breathe in the familiar scent of strong tea, ink, and _him._

“Is this . . .?” she tried.

“It’s whatever you want it to be,” he said. “A sign of esteem or friendship . . . or simply a pretty stone to keep. Or not.”

Her fingers closed around it at the thought of discarding such a gift.

“Or,” he said quietly, “you could see it as my intention to court you.”

“Court?” she whispered, having forgotten how to breathe. “Me?”

His smile dimmed a bit. “I’ll accept your wishes, lass, with no argument,” he said. “Unless you decide to break our contract. Even if you cannot return my feelings, it will be enough for me, I think, just to see my One each day and see you happy in your craft.”

“Your . . ?” she said.

“Aye,” he said. “I’ll have no other.”

“Oh,” she said. She looked from his steady regard to the stone in her hand and back again. “I don’t . . .” she stopped as a look of pain crossed his face.

“Ah,” he said, with a sigh.  “I promise, on my honor, that I will do my utmost to make you comfortable and never give you reason to fear any repercussions or unwanted advances.”

“No!” she said, before she thought and at his wince she took a deep breath. “That’s not . . . I only meant . . . I don’t know what to say, my lord.”

“You don’t have to say anything, lass,” he said. “I understand—”

She shook her head. “No, you don’t. You’re . . ." She swallowed. “You’re _you._ Balin, son of Fundin, cousin to Kings and drafter of the most brilliant contracts of this Age. You retook the Lonely Mountain, survived _two_ dragon attacks—”

“It was the same dragon,” he murmured, his eyes crinkling at the corners in that way that she loved.

“And on top of that you’re kind and generous and just _look_ at you, with your beard and your nose and . . .” She gestured at him. “You’re . . .” She felt her eyes prickle and covered them with the hand that wasn’t gripping the quartz hard enough to hurt.

“Lass?”

“You’re _everything_ ,” she said, unable to stop her voice from hitching. “And I have nothing to offer you at all.”

“That is not true,” he said, pulling her hand gently down and holding it in both of his. “Hope is of greater value than gold; even the smallest glint can move mountains and face down monsters. May I hope to earn your heart, lass?”

“I . . . you have it, my lord,” she said, with simple truth. “But you won’t want what comes with it.”

“A chance is all I want,” he said, misunderstanding her.   “And if you can stand to be related to the Durins, I believe I can tolerate a few Ironfists. You’re tired and it’s late,” he added. “Would you have lunch with me tomorrow? In the Garden?”

She nodded, unable to refuse him, and watched helplessly as he lifted her hand to press a kiss to it. His lips were warm on her skin and she shivered at the brush of his soft beard.

“Good-night, lass.”

“Good . . . good-night, my lord,” she said and fled up the stairs, his token clutched in her hand.

She threw herself on Dori's comfortble guest bed and curled up as small as possible, her mind moving from elation to despair and back again.

A knock came and Ori slipped in.  "Are you all right?" he asked, sitting next to her.

"I don't _know_ ," she wailed.

He reached out and stroked at her hair.  "When I realized Dwalin and I were Ones, I was terrified."

"About your boundaries?"  Ori had had trouble in the past, with smitten dwarrow assuming that being craft-wed was a choice—and that a single tumble with “the right dwarf” could change his mind. 

"Never about that—he's always been respectful," he said, grinning.  "There was still a lot to discuss, but everything worked out very well.”

"Lord Balin and I have a lot to discuss, too."  And it wasn't likely to go well.

"Mmmm,” he said.  “But at least Balin isn't in love with Nori—that should simplify things."

"Nothing about this is sim—wait.”  She sat up.  “Dwalin is in love with Nori, too?"

"And Dori."

"But . . . how?"

He shrugged.  "Nori let Dwalin chase him until they were both caught and Dori . . . I don't really want to know the details."

Neither did Eilífr.  

“And I realized by the time we reached the Misty Mountains. Though it took Dwalin a little longer; he was worried about the _age difference._ ”  Ori shook his head.

"But—"

"Nori and Dori and I are his Ones and he's ours. But we aren't Ones with each other."  He wrinkled his nose.  "That would be taking things too far."

"Yes, but—"

"There's historical precedent, you know. Even King—"

"Roin the Second and his two crowned sibling consorts.  I _know_ ," she said, rolling her eyes.  "It's just, you're all so . . . so _different_."

"So are carbon, iron, and nickel," he said. "And they make strong, incorruptible steel. That's Dwalin, in case you were wondering," he said, with a kind of dignified blush.

"You're happy," she said, leaning against him.

"We all are."

"You all deserve it."

"So do you," he said, elbowing her gently. "What's that?"

She showed him the quartz. "He . . . Lord Balin gave it to me."

His eyes widened and he touched it with a reverent finger.  "Is that one of the stones he had in his pocket when Smaug attacked?  He told us it anchored his dreams of home."  He smiled his lopsided smile, looking absolutely delighted.  "Looks like he has another dream now."

She felt her face heat. "Ori—"

"I knew it!  I knew you were perfect for each other!"

"Ori."

He looked at her.  "Eilíe? What's wrong?"

"We aren't," she said.  "We can't be."

"But he's your One."

She nodded.

"And you're his."

"He _thinks_ I am.  But he can't possibly think I’m—"

"Balin is the wisest dwarf I’ve ever met,” he said.  “He knows his own mind.”

“That he does,” Dori said, bumping the door out of his way as he bustled in with a tea tray.  “But he’s lost the ability to express it in full sentences, which I wouldn’t have thought possible. He kept repeating the word “everything” as though he couldn’t believe his luck—and something about a token?”

Ori bounced a little.  "He gave her his mother's quartz—you know the one."

Dori's eyebrows rose. "Well, now."

Eilífr felt her eyes prickle again.  “What am I going to do?”

Dori gave the tray to Ori, gathered her in his arms, and sat down with her as if she was a dwarfling younger than she’d been when they’d first met.  “Do you want to refuse his suit?” he asked, sounding perfectly serious.  “Once he offers an _official_ gift, that is.”

“No,” she said, resting her head against his barreled chest.

“Then you’ll accept his formal gift and I will make you the most beautiful gown for the blessing—”

“I don’t want to refuse, but I can’t accept.”

Dori leaned back to look at her. “Whyever not?”

“Because he can’t possibly accept my terms. He has too many responsibilities.”

“Then _change_ them, dear.”  Dori hugged her closer and exhaled. “You know, all the tales tell us that finding our One grants us instant happiness, when all it really does is give us a reason to work hard to earn it.  All relationships are give-and-take.  And Balin might surprise you, you know.”

“I can’t change the terms.  I have responsibilities, too.”

Ori laid a hand on her back.  “Your father was wrong, Eilíe.  He had no right to—“

“I have no right to end my Clan for my own selfish reasons.”

“You deserve to be selfish!” Ori said.  “Just this once, think of yourself!”

“I am,” she said. She didn't know if she could live without Lord Balin . . . but if she ignored even the smallest possibility that the Stonefoot people could be revived by name and numbers, she was certain she wouldn't be able to live with herself.

“What are you thinking, dear?” Dori said, rocking her just a little.  His voice was low and soothing and calm and she knew he was humoring her, but she cuddled closer anyway.

“I’m thinking I need to speak with Lor—I mean, Brýni.”

“Why?” Ori asked, but he kept rubbing her back when she asked for a cup a tea instead of answering.

 

 

 

The next morning, Eilífr wrote a message to Brýni and gave it to Brambur, who had apparently assigned himself to whichever section of the Mountain she was in at any given moment.  He made a face but scampered away, returning after breakfast with a message telling her that her cousin would be in negotiations all morning but would find her in the afternoon, if that was acceptable.  

It wasn't ideal, but there was nothing to be done about it.  So she thanked Brambur and asked him to take her to the Hobbit Gardens.

Dori had frowned a bit, but had agreed with a minimum of fuss, sending her on her way with several bottles of red clover tea and enough food for four people, though she hadn’t told him that Lord Balin had asked to meet her there for lunch. 

Brambur helped her arrange herself near her favorite bench and ran off with a handful of sugar biscuits.

Bifur appeared soon after, brushing dirt and stone dust from his hands.  He greeted her with his usual friendly warmth and explained that he was working on a project halfway across the cavern.  “I would be pleased to carry your belongings there, should you wish it,” he said.

“Thank you,” she said, “but I don't think I'll be very good company today."

He put a large, gentle hand on her shoulder for a moment, told her to call out if she needed anything, and disappeared across the brook and around one of the artificial hillocks.

She drank some tea, settled back, told herself she had three hours to decide exactly what to tell Lord Balin, and promptly fell asleep.

She opened her eyes some time later, woken by the fragrance of familiar pipe smoke.  She took a deep breath and wondered why her father had chosen to buy Old Toby over strong drink, then remembered where and when she was and sat up in confusion.

“Careful,” said a friendly voice.  “Your tea is in danger.”

She moved her elbow carefully, picked up the bottle, and drank the rest of it.  “Thank you,” she said, fighting through her residual muzziness.

“You’re welcome. I hope you don’t mind my intrusion,” he went on. “Bifur thought you might keep an eye on me, but we didn’t want to wake you.”

She looked blearily towards the speaker, or at the nearest part of him, which happened to be a large, bare, and exceedingly furry foot.  She followed it up the bare ankle to a pair of well-worn trousers, a dark green waistcoat, moved to the hand holding the pipe, and up a somewhat creased shirt sleeve to the shaggy hair and a friendly face as bare as an Elf’s.

It wasn’t a long perusal, for as large as the foot was, its owner . . . wasn’t, overall.

"Are you . . ?" she said.  "I beg your pardon, sir, but are you perhaps . . ?"

“Where are my manners,” he said standing up and bowing as nicely as any dwarf.  “Bilbo Baggins, at your service.”

Bilbo Baggins?  _The_ Bilbo Baggins?   

 She moved to rise, tentatively accepting his offered hand.  “Eilífr, daughter of . . . of Dýrhildr, at your service,” she said. 

He nodded.  “It’s lovely to meet you at last, Mistress Eilífr.   Balin wrote to me about you, though Ori had already mentioned his . . . heart sister, was it?”

She blushed and nodded.  “We aren’t related, but . . .”

“But just as good as?”  He smiled and gestured to the bench, waiting until she was comfortable to take his seat again.  “He always planned to ask you to join them here when Smaug was gone and was elated when you agreed.  I’m only sorry I didn’t receive his letter until your caravan had already passed the Shire—I’d hoped to offer you a bit of hospitality.”

Eilífr felt honored and disappointed at the same time; she’d always wanted to see Bag End, especially the library, which had made quite an impression on Ori.

“Balin mentioned that it was your idea to ask me about the crops,” he continued.  “If the others had bothered to tell me Erebor was in danger of going hungry, I would have . . .” He paused and rubbed at a finger on one hand, looking tired.  “Well, perhaps it was for the best.”

“Are you well, milord?”

“Fine, thank you, just a bit travel-worn.”  He blinked.  “But I’m not a lord—the Shire has no use for titles of that sort.”

“But His Majesty decreed—“

“No,” he said, firmly.  “Just a simple hobbit.”  He drew on his pipe, blew a perfect smoke ring, and smiled at her. “Are you feeling better for your nap?”

“Yes, thank you, mi—Master Baggins,” she said.  “It’s quite restful here.”

“Yes,” he said, looking around.  “I didn’t think dwarves cared for gardening.”

“Lord Bifur likes it,” she said.  “He says it gives him time to think.”

“That it does,” he said.  “It’s a wonder Smaug didn’t damage it beyond repair.”

“This was all created after Smaug,” she said.  “The chamber was here, already, of course, and the hole up there. But the rest was put in later.” 

“Really,” he said.  “That must have taken some effort; it’s like a bit of the Shire, here.”

She laughed at that and he gave her a quizzical smile. 

“Oh,” she said.  “Did Lord Bifur not tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“This is the _Melhekhinhaz Buzn,”_ _she said. “_ The Hobbit Garden.”

He stared at her.  “Oh,” he said.  “Oh, that’s  . . .” His blue eyes shone and he pressed a hand to his mouth for a moment before clearing his throat.  “Well.  That’s unexpected.”

“It shouldn’t be, Master Baggins,” she said quietly, before changing the subject out of sympathy.   “If I may ask, how did you get here so quickly?”

“Now, that is a long, strange story,” he said, rubbing his bare finger again.  “How much of the retaking of Erebor do you know? The journey here, I mean.”

“I’ve read Ori’s account,” she said.  “And Nori told me some things Ori didn’t write down.”

“I’m sure he did,” Master Baggins muttered.  “But my journey here actually started when the cave floor dropped us right into the laps of the goblins.  In the chaos, I was separated from my companions, and—“

“Bilbo!”

 The hobbit turned just as a dark-haired whirlwind swept him up in a tight embrace.  "You're finally here!"

"Kíli," Master Baggins said, his voice strangled, but fond.  "Can't breathe."

"Sorry.”  The prince let him go and beamed down at the hobbit.

"No harm done," Lor—Master Baggins said, brushing himself off.  "It's nice to see you up and walking about for myself, even if it is a bit dangerous for everyone else."

This pointed rebuke only produced a wide grin.  “The rest of our Company is on their way, though Balin, Thorin, and Fíli are stuck in a meeting with those damned—uh," he glanced at Eilífr, "the Ironfist delegation.  Hello, Eilífr.  Feeling any better?"

"Much, Your Highness, thank you."

That produced a frown.  "Haven't we had this conversation?" he asked.  "We've sorted through a mountain or two of courting gifts together—there’s no point in bothering with formalities, now."

"Maybe not, but in a public setting—"

"This isn't public; it's only Bilbo."

"Only," muttered Lord Bilbo, still sounding fond.  Then, "Courting gifts?"

"For Balin," Kíli said, his eyes sliding to Eilífr.  "He's quite the catch."

She swallowed, remembering that Lord Balin would be here soon and she still didn’t know what to tell him, let alone how to tell him, and—

"I'm sure," Lord Bilbo said, looking at Eilífr with curiosity.  She braced herself, but he only smiled and said, "How many avalanches did this rascal cause?"

"Bilbo, I'm offended.  We dwarrow pride ourselves on our instinctive knowledge of structure integrity."

"Mistress Eilífr?"

"Four," she said, absently, putting her hand into her pocket, where she’d slipped the quartz and the garnet that morning.

"That's not fair!" Kíli said, interrupting her melancholy.  He was, she thought, very good at that and wondered, not for the first time, how deliberate his wild behavior might be.

"You buried your brother in the third one," she said, more than willing to try for a more cheerful mood in front of Master Baggins.

"Not on purpose!  And _he's_ the one who pulled that parcel from the bottom! Not me!"

"Of course," she said, bowing, "Your Highness."  

Kíli made a face at her that was difficult not to make back and turned to the hobbit.  "We weren't expecting you for another fortnight.  How did you get here so quickly?"

"Well.” Master Baggins rubbed his finger. “Remember the goblin—"

"Bilbo Baggins!" The cry came from several throats and suddenly there was nothing for Eilífr to do but watch as half the Heroes of Erebor descended on him at once, Dori pausing only to hand her a fresh bottle of tea.

Master Baggins was passed from dwarf to dwarf, where he was hugged and thumped and shouted at and generally welcomed within an inch of his life—and then another cry came and he was taken up by Bombur and Dwalin, who nearly killed him with the force of their regard, and Oin who checked him over for damage while nearly deafening him.

When that furor died down, Fíli appeared at a run, Nori appeared out of thin air, and Bifur leapt over the brook and soon the entirety of the Company was present, save for His Majesty and Lord Balin.

Eilífr was about to sneak away as best she could when the assembly hushed and all moved back into an open circle around the hobbit.

King Thorin II, called Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain, strode over the hill. He was wearing neither his crown nor bearing Orcrist, but no one could mistake him for any other.

As Eilífr stood, preparing to bow if His Majesty looked in her direction, she caught sight of Lord Balin walking close behind his king. Her wretched heart thudded once in recognition and if she could have made her feet move, she would have fled.

Instead, she looked away to see Bilbo Baggins tug on his waistcoat and stand at attention, hand on his small sword. His eyes danced in his otherwise solemn face.

Thorin stepped and stared, his mouth dropping a little.  "Bilbo?" he said.

Balin stepped around him and clasped the hobbit’s shoulders.  "My dear friend, it is  _good_ to see you again."

Master Baggins murmured something that made Balin chuckle, before moving aside.  He noticed Eilífr and his smile made her light-headed.

But then His Majesty was moving, _kneeling_ , and embracing the “simple hobbit” as an equal.

"I have missed you," King Thorin said.

"And I you," Master Baggins said gruffly, patting the broad back.

Thorin released him and sat back on his heels.  "What brings you here?" he asked.

"A letter and a favor.” Master Baggins said.

"The letter was from us," Lord Balin said. “Suggesting a visit.”

“The surprise was my idea!” Kíli said.

“The real surprise is that you were able to keep a secret that long,” Fíli said, to much laughter.

King Thorin shot a quelling look at his heirs. "And the favor?"

"I would like to send several cartloads of soil from your poor fields to The Shire and see what the best of their farmers can do with it, with your permission, of course.” He clapped a hand on His Majesty’s shoulder and smiled. “We worked much too hard to take this mountain from Smaug. I’m not about to let him take it from us again."

"That can easily be arranged," boomed Gloin.

"Send?"  His Majesty asked. " _Their_ farmers?"

Bilbo cleared his throat.  "Yes, well.  I'm here to stay, if you'll have me.  The carts will bring back the few things I can't live without.  Handkerchiefs.  Blunted knives.  That sort of thing."

A cheer went up and everyone converged on him again, leaving Eilífr to drink her tea and watch bemused as twelve of the most important dwarrow in Erebor behaved like giddy dwarflings playing Mushroom in the Middle with a hobbit who was laughing too hard to protest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to add Bilbo’s explanation to this chapter, but then Mushroom in the Middle happened and once that starts, you might as well call a break until everyone calms down enough to listen.
> 
> In case it's not clear, in this series, I'm using craft-wed as the dwarf way of saying Ori is asexual, but (clearly, considering what Ori walked in on) not aromantic. There's an explanation of my use of that term (and stone-wed) in Facets, somewhere (plus a thoughtful comment suggesting that the definitions of craft- and stone-wed could be switched), if you care enough to search it out.


	21. Author's Note

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An apology and an excuse...

First, the apology:

I am SO SORRY it's been a year since I updated this story. The last chapter didn't end anywhere near where the story does and you have/had every right to ditch it.

My excuse;

In late August of 2015, I had an attack of pancreatitis. It necrotized, which means its acids ate away at a lot of my insides. I now have somewhat fewer organs than factory standard--and ironically, the only one that ended up healthy enough to donate is my appendix.

I've had numerous surgeries, went through several bouts of sepsis and infections, and basically surprised a lot of people by living through it. 

I use a walker now and am still being fed through a nose tube (I would sell my working kidney for a burrito, but my surgeon won't go for it) because I still have holes in various digestion-related places. I have a pill minder that barely closes...

Needless to say, I haven't been writing much. Typing was impossible with shaking hands--thinking was tricky for a long time--and longhand writing was so painfully bad (and, you know, plain painful), it made me cry.

But I'm finally home and getting steadier every day. And this morning, I *finally* remembered my Ao3 password, which I took as a sign.

If I can coax this story back, I promise I'll do it. It's just going to be slow and erratic for a while. I wrote this one-fingered on my phone, which I hope at least shows willing? 

Thanks for your continued patience --and for the comments I haven't replied to. I just couldn't at the time...

<3, VV


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